Charlie got out of his cab, and climbed the stairs to his rooms. Reaching the top stair in the semi-darkness, he stumbled over someone sitting there--someone asleep by the startled sounds he made as he got up. Charlie saw that it was an old man, who, in the confusion of the moment, had pulled off his hat, and was bowing and scraping before the younger one. "Who are you?" asked Charlie, staring at him. "I think you will remember me, Mr. Purdue," replied the quavering voice, "although it is years since we met. You were a child then--and I had the felicity of calling you by your Christian name. Years have gone by, and while fortune has raised you--(as I am sure you must deserve)--to a position of affluence--it has seen fit to cast me down, and in a sense, to trample upon me. But I thought that if I might----" By that time Charlie had got the door open, and had gone in and turned up the gas. Facing about there, he saw that the old man had come into the doorway, and was standing watching him; and then in a moment, somewhat ruefully, Charlie recognised him. "Why--it's old Ditchburn----. I beg your pardon; I should have said Mr. Ditchburn. Come in. How did you find me out?" Anthony Ditchburn came into the room humbly, and looked about with the air of one who was sizing things up, with a view to the value, in a pecuniary sense, of the man who lived there. "Your esteemed father was so good as to suggest that I might call and see you," he said. "Very kind of my esteemed father," said Charlie, looking at the old man doubtfully. "Would you mind shutting the door; then you can come in and talk." Anthony Ditchburn, nothing loth, closed the door with alacrity, and came into the room. Charlie saw how ragged and unkempt the man was; noted in a quick glance all the little devices of poverty for the saving of his dress and the covering of worn seams and threads; he mentally decided that Mr. Ditchburn would probably endeavour to "touch him" for something before he departed. "My dear young friend," began Anthony, in that querulous, whining tone he had learned to adopt, "I am indeed glad to look upon your face again. The world has gone hardly with me; it may astonish you to know that I have not at times had sufficient to eat. I wrote to your dear father, and he was so good as to send me a little temporary assistance--merely as a loan, of course." "Look here," broke in Charlie, hurriedly, "if you're thinking of that sort of thing, I may tell you at once that it's no good. I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world--but I have a devil of a fight to get along on my small allowance; because, you see, a man of my age wants enjoyment--must have it, in fact." Mr. Ditchburn drew himself up somewhat haughtily; strength was his, because he had not yet exhausted the sum sent him by the Rev. Temple Purdue. "I do not come here to beg," he said; "this is merely a friendly visit."