A group of three persons, comprising our Reporter, Mr. Goldberry, and Antony Cowlrick, standing together in Leicester Square, and a woman sitting on a doorstep--these are the individuals in whom we are at present interested. A policeman idles to and fro, at some distance, with his eyes occasionally turned towards the group, but he does not interfere. It was noon, and, as usual, a strange quietude reigned in Leicester Square. This is its normal condition in the day-time, and is the more remarkable because of the contiguity of the Square to the most infamous thoroughfare in London--the Haymarket--wherein vice in its most shameless and degrading aspects openly parades itself for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. "Can I be of any assistance to you?" asked Mr. Goldberry, of Antony Cowlrick. "No," replied Antony Cowlrick, abruptly, and then, observing who it was that spoke, added: "Your pardon! You are the gentleman who defended me?" Mr. Goldberry nodded. "What was your motive?" "Compassion." Antony Cowlrick cast his eyes upon his ragged clothes, and passed his hand over his face, upon which a two months' beard was growing. "I look a fit object of compassion. But I am not grateful to you. I should have been discharged, some time or other, without your assistance. There was no evidence, you see; and, after all, I may be guilty of the murder." "I do not think you are," said Mr. Goldberry. "It is scarcely worth arguing about," remarked Antony Cowlrick. "He is not the first, and will not be the last." "He! Who?" quickly asked Mr. Goldberry. "The man who was murdered in Great Porter Square." "Do you know anything of him?" "What should I know? Some interesting particulars concerning him will no doubt one day be brought to light." Cowlrick paused a moment. "You are a lawyer, and therefore a decent member of society. You go to church, and, of course, believe in God." "Well?" "Well!" echoed Antony Cowlrick. "Do you think God will allow the guilty to escape, or that He needs the assistance of a lawyer to punish the man who sheds his brother's blood?" "His brother's blood!" exclaimed Mr. Goldberry. "Are we not all brothers!" said Antony Cowlrick with bitter emphasis. "Do we not all live in charity with one another? Enough. I have no desire to prolong this conversation; it can lead to no good result. But I felt bound to answer you civilly, as it is barely possible, when you rose in the police-court to defend me, that you were in part animated by a kindly sentiment for an unfortunate man. On the other hand, you may have been wholly impelled by a desire to advertise your name in an important case of murder. But you shall have the benefit of the doubt. Give me your card. If at any time I should need you, I will call upon or send for you." It was with an air of patronage that this beggarly man spoke to the well-to-do lawyer; but Mr. Goldberry, with admirable equanimity, accepted the position, and handed Antony Cowlrick his card.