I sneaked away then, in a state of bewildered grief, sorrowful repentance, and mournful exasperation. This was by far the unhappiest event in my life; and things got worse and worse as the day wore on. Mr. Blades asked me what the deuce I’d been doing, and when I told him, he said “Rats!” This was a word he used to mean scorn. Then he continued, and even used French. “‘Martin Tupper!’ Why don’t you say it was Martin Luther at once? I believe it’s a case of ‘Sasshay la fam!’” “Martin Luther died in 1546, so it couldn’t have been him, and I don’t know what ‘Sasshay la fam’ means,” I said, and Mr. Blades replied in a most startling manner: “So’s Martin Tupper dead—sure to be! Ages ago, no doubt. Anyway, I happen to know that Mr. Westonshaugh thinks the dickens of a lot of him, so when you said he’d been standing you a lunch, you made the worst joke you could have.” “It wasn’t a joke, but quite the reverse,” I said; and then I told Mr. Blades how I had an introduction to Mr. Wilson Barrett at that moment in my pocket—to prove the truth of what I was saying. Mr. Blades read it carefully and shook his head. “You’re such a jug, Corkey,” he said. “This is neither more nor less than a common or garden confidence trick. The beggar saw you had a ‘fiver’ at the bookstall and soon found you were a soft thing. Then he pretended to be friendly and just hammered away till he found the weak spot. If you’d go and have a sensible lunch, like everybody else, instead of wandering about London in the helpless way you do, on a bun and a glass of milk, this wouldn’t have happened.” “The great point is whether Mr. Tupper is or is not dead,” I told Mr. Blades. “If he is dead, really and truly, then no doubt I have been swindled by a shady character; but if he is not, then there is still hope that it was really him.” Mr. Blades, with his accustomed great kindness, himself went in to Mr. Westonshaugh with me and explained the painful situation in some well-chosen words. “I shouldn’t have thought of using the name of such a world-renowned poet, sir,” I said to the Head of the Department; “but he told me so himself, and he was exceedingly serious-looking and solemn and kind; and far above clean clothes—which is a common thing with poets. But, of course, if he’s dead, as Mr. Blades thinks—--” “He’s not dead,” answered the Chief. “I am glad to say that he is not dead. It is my privilege to correspond with Mr. Tupper occasionally. I heard from him on the subject of a difficult passage in one of his poems only a month ago.” “Does he live in Grosvenor Square, sir?” I asked; “because this Mr. Tupper said he did—at No. 96.” “He does not,” answered Mr. Westonshaugh. “He doesn’t live in London at all.” Then Mr. Blades had a brilliant idea. “Would you know Mr. Tupper’s handwriting, sir?” he asked, and Mr. Westonshaugh said that he would know it instantly. He examined the letter of introduction to Mr. Barrett, and pronounced it to be an unquestionable forgery.