daughter that you tried to prevent our meeting because you wished me to marry one of your sisters, though I do not know, of course, whether you have any even. That, and the taking the stamps off your letters so that I could get beer, seem to weigh most heavily with me now in my darkness and loneliness. I do not know what my sentence will be--heavy, I suspect, unless I can get someone to plead for me, and I have not a single solitary friend to do that. I am utterly alone. I have been in this cell now twenty-one days, and have a week more before sentence is given. It seems like six months. No one can realize what prison is like till they have tried it. Believe me, I am deeply and truly sorry. I speak from my heart. Think of me as kindly as you can when I am in the Penitentiary. I hope I shall see you once more. ARTHUR B. I saw Boyde twice in my life afterwards; I heard, indirectly, from him once: the prison chaplain wrote to ask for “his things” which, Boyde told him, I “insisted upon keeping.” He never had any “things” at all while I knew him; the letter was indignant and offensive. Boyde had evidently “told a tale” to the chaplain. The first time I saw him was some eighteen months after he had been sent up, good behaviour evidently having shortened his term. I was walking up Irving Place and saw him suddenly about fifty yards in front of me. It was my own thick suit I recognized first, then its wearer. I instinctively called out his name. He turned, looked at me, hurried on, and went round the corner into 21st Street. Once round the corner, he must have run like a hare, for when I entered the street too, he had disappeared. The second, and last, time I saw him was in London ten years later--at a bookstall in Charing Cross station. He saw me, however, first, or before I could come close enough to speak, and he melted away into the crowd with swift and accomplished ease. I was near enough, though, to note that he had grown his heavy moustache again, still wore his eyeglass, and was smartly, even prosperously, dressed. He looked very little older. From Lynwood Palmer, whom I met soon afterwards in Piccadilly, I heard that my old employer, the Horse, had seen him at Tattersalls not long before, and that he, Boyde, had come and begged Palmer not to give him away as he was “after some Jews only”! Artist Palmer took no action. CHAPTER XXV McCloy took me back on the _Evening Sun_, according to his promise, about mid-January, and about the same time Mrs. Bernstein sold her house and moved to another lower down the street, almost opposite to the doctor’s. There were no insects, all our things were out of pawn, we had overcoats again, but we had to find a new Ikey, for the old Ikey, of course, would have nothing more to do with our trousers, gladstone bag, top hat and tennis cups.