“That done, Gridd wrote two other letters. One of these contained a cheque for ten thousand pounds, and this he despatched to my Institute in Scotland; the other was directed to his bankers and requested those gentlemen to honour the cheque when it should be presented. “So I left him to reflect upon his egregious sins, for physically the man was now reduced to mere palpitating flesh and my continued presence must doubtless have rendered him insane. It is quite certain that no spectre could thus oppress a mind fortified by virtue. “He slunk about Monte Carlo like one pursued by the Furies, and doubtless he expected to see my stern shadow reflected once more within his bloodshot eyes at every step. An analysis of his emotions would be terribly instructive. I could even find it in my heart to have pitied him then. But I thought of my wife, my children, my Institute, and was firm. “He made no attempt to go back upon my commands or to evade them. Within twenty-four hours the metropolis was ringing with a new sensation, the book was recalled as far as might be, and the Parkinson Institute had grown richer by ten thousand pounds. Indeed that does not represent all the advantage accruing to the institution from my action. Numberless benefactions have sprung from this revelation and the consciences of many tender persons have been touched into practical action. Thus the right-feeling have compounded with their better natures. And what is even more to me: this terrible cloud has been lifted from off the hearts of my dear wife and children. “My mission was accomplished within three short days. I visited Thomas Gridd once more, begged him be of good cheer, to endeavour yet to justify his existence, and to make his peace with Heaven, even as he had now made it with men and ghosts. Then I vanished from his eyes. Frankly I regret the unfortunate man’s position. It is terrible, indeed hopeless, from a worldly point of view, yet a just and due reward for unparalleled perfidy, if one may say so without being vindictive.” The Professor sighed and ceased. * * * * * A week later, thanks to the arrival of an aged journalist, we learned the end of this incident. “Thomas Gridd committed suicide after writing a most astounding confession to the _Morning Post_,” he explained. “Then how comes it that he has not joined us?” I asked, rather foolishly. There was an awkward silence, upon which Ben Jonson, who chanced to be present with other celebrities already mentioned, broke in with his great laughter. “It would seem, young man, thou art scarce so heedful of thy company as an honest shade should be,” he said. “Know that we harbour not with such varlets here. They have their proper kennel. Ask Dante about him.” “The man Gridd now descends upon a locality of purgatorial discomfort, situated beyond the limits of our knowledge, though not of our conjecture,” declared Dr. Johnson.