Mr. Hoskyns was a frail-looking, spare-built man of some fifty-five or sixty years. He was rather short-sighted, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles. He had gray hair, and gray whiskers that ended abruptly half-way down his cheeks, as though too timid to venture farther. He was dressed with a certain old-fashioned precision, that took little or no heed of the variations of fashion, but went on quietly repeating itself from one year’s end to another. He was very fond of snuff, which he imbibed, not after the reckless and defiant manner affected by some lovers of the powdered weed, but in a deferential, half-apologetic kind of way, as though he were ashamed of the practice, and begged you would make a point of forgetting his weakness as speedily as possible. He carried an old-fashioned silver snuff-box in his waistcoat pocket, and in another pocket a yellow silk handkerchief of immense size, bordered with black. In short, Mr. Hoskyns was a clearly individualized figure, and one might safely say that, by sight at least, he was known to every man, woman, and child in Duxley. He was very pleased indeed to see his quondam clerk. “Then you do still manage to keep your head above water, eh?” he said, as he shook Tom warmly by the hand. “Yes. The waters of speculation have not quite swallowed me up,” said Tom, demurely. “Ah, you know the old proverb, ‘a rolling stone,’ et cetera. You should have stuck to your stool in the outer office, as I advised you to do. You might, perhaps, have been junior partner by this time, and—this in your ear—the business gets more lucrative every year; it does really. Ah, Tom, Tom, you made a great mistake when you left Duxley! Thought you were going to set the Thames on fire, I know you did.” “Experience, sir, is said to make fools wise. Let us hope that I shall have gathered a little of the commodity by-and-by.” “Well, you must come and dine with me this evening. Can’t stay now. I’m due at the gaol in fifteen minutes.” “That’s the very place to which I want to go with you.” “Eh? Bless my heart, what do you want to go there for?” “To see the same man that you are going to visit—to see my dear friend, Lionel Dering.” “Why, good gracious, you don’t mean to say——” and Mr. Hoskyns took off his spectacles, and stared at Tom in blank amazement. Then Tom had to explain, in the fewest possible words, how it happened that he and Lionel Dering were such excellent friends. Five minutes later they were on their way to the gaol.