CHAPTER IX. There has been a late sitting in the House of Commons. A protracted debate on the crowded condition of the filthy alleys and slums in that most wonderful city of the world, London, has kept members fully occupied. But twelve o’clock, midnight, has struck, and the Commons are dispersing. It has been a great night for Hector D’Estrange. He has spoken for an hour and a half to a spell-bound audience; for does it not know full well that the subject of that night’s discussion is one in which he is no novice, it having been undertaken on his own motion? He has spoken for an hour and a half, and has told them many things. Has he not a right to do so? None like him have dived into those terrible slums, have visited night after night, as he has done, those abodes of crime, of vice, of wickedness, and of misery. He knows them well, and has depicted them as they _are_, to the wondering representatives of a nation, in language of which he alone is master. He has seen much, and knows much of the horrors which he has depicted so vividly, yet not even he knows some of the depths of infamy that exist in that cesspool of Modern Babylon. He has yet another experience to incur. “Dear old Hector, that was a grand speech of yours!” exclaims the Duke of Ravensdale, who, having been an attentive listener during the debate, has run down to join his friend as the latter leaves the Commons. “Come across to Montragee House, and let us have a little supper. Wish you would stay there the night, old man!” “I can’t, Evie,” replies Hector. “I have to go down to Windsor by an early train, and must go home and order my things to be packed up; but I’ll come across for half an hour or so and have a mouthful, as I went without my dinner.” They walk along, linked arm-in-arm, towards Whitehall, and as they do so Big Ben chimes out the hour of half-past twelve. “How time flies, to be sure!” remarks the young duke thoughtfully. “Funny thing time is—eh, Hector?” “It is,” answers this latter gravely; “a something without being, shape, or substance, and yet a thing that has been, is, and yet shall be.” “What a happy chap you ought to be, Hector! I don’t suppose there’s an hour in your life which you can look back upon as having wasted or misspent, save in doing good and trying to help others,” exclaims his friend in an almost envious tone. “Would to God I could say the same of myself!” “Hush, Evie! don’t try and make me vain; and don’t run yourself down before me. I won’t allow it. God knows you are earnest enough in your desire to do good, and, dear Evie, you have succeeded. I don’t suppose there’s another in your position who has done so much. I never had such a good true friend as you in all my undertakings, except one, and of course I except her.” “Her!” exclaims his friend in a somewhat surprised voice. “Whom, Hector?”