“I must go and see what is up. Promise me to keep quite still. Don’t even look out of the window.” “I promise. I’ll look at the album instead. That is a most harmless, a most creditable thing to do. My heart thumps still. Do you think it’s a suicide? I’d like a smelling-bottle, if you had one. But a drop of whisky is the modern substitute. Thank you. And in this little cup. How pretty!” “It belonged to Kinsman. You will hear about him later. Here is the album. There are portraits of Adeline Pray and Minnie Chaytor--women whose acquaintance you’ll make. I won’t be long.” * * * * * “What was it? Here, take the rest of the whisky; you look as if you wanted it.” “It was Dick Simpson. He’s shot himself. Let me take you out and put you in a hansom. This is our first installment; a melodramatic one.” “Why did he shoot himself? How shocking! Love? There’s a girl going in at the door now.” “Why? You will understand when I tell you about that set of chambers in which he lived. Poor Dick! He’s left a note, just saying that all his accounts are in order. He was in the City; some of the men of Marlowe’s are. The odd thing is--there is always a quip in our tragedies--that he had dressed for the occasion. Frock coat, flower in his buttonhole, new tie--he only bought it last night; showed it to me; asked if I admired the pattern. They’ll never let that set again; it is the most extraordinary thing--that’s the fifth man that _I_ know of, counting Drummond and Jimmy. “He was such a thrifty, cautious little chap, too! No debts, no difficult position. He wasn’t hard up--as most of us are. He lived within his income.” “He seems to have been a commonplace person.” “Poor Dick! Here you are. Where shall I tell the man to drive to?” “To the Circus. Good-by. I’ll come again, about this time this day week. Poor man! How shocking!” THE ONE IN RED. ORION was mean. He gave a party once. The whisky was watered. He came to me confidentially in the course of the evening and whispered angrily: “You see that fellow Pearson? My word! how he’s helping himself to whisky. He’s drinking it neat. I’ve watched him. Don’t you call that confounded impudence?” He was also one of those men whose brains never seem to develop; a weak-minded chap who, when he had his hair cut, allowed the barber to wheedle him into buying a bottle of hair wash--half a crown the small size, but only four-and-sixpence for one containing more than double. Brains! Men like that have only just enough to grub along with--just enough to see that they get their proper change across the counter, and are given the right brand of tobacco.