I half expected that he would offer a vehement denial, or would at least put forward the plea of forgetfulness. To my surprise, however, he did neither. "I remember the incident perfectly," he answered, with the utmost composure. "At the same time, I assure you, you wrong me when you declare I laughed--on my word, you do! Let us suppose, however, that I _did_ do so; and where is the harm? The man desired death; his own action confessed it, otherwise how came he there? It was proved at the inquest that he had repeatedly declared himself weary of life. He was starving; he was without hope. Had he lived over that night, death, under any circumstances, would only have been a matter of a few days with him. Would you therefore have had me, knowing all this, prolong such an existence? In the name of that humanity to which you referred just now, I ask you the question. You say I laughed. Would you have had me weep?" "A specious argument," I replied; "but I own to you frankly I consider the incident a detestable one." "There I will meet you most willingly," he continued. "From your point of view it certainly _was_. From mine--well, as I said just now, I confess I view it differently. However, I give you my assurance, your pity is undeserved. The man was a contemptible scoundrel in every way. He came of respectable stock, was reared under the happiest auspices. Had he chosen he might have risen to anything in his own rank of life; but he would not choose. At fifteen he robbed his father's till to indulge in debauchery, and had broken his parents' hearts before he was five-and-twenty. He married a girl as good as he was bad, and as a result starved not only himself but his wife and children. Though employment was repeatedly offered him, he refused it, not from any inability to work, but from sheer distaste of labour. He had not sufficient wit, courage, or energy to become a criminal; but throughout his life, wherever he went, and upon all with whom he came in contact, he brought misery and disgrace. Eventually he reached the end of his tether, and was cast off by every one. The result you know." The fluency and gusto with which he related these sordid details amazed me. I inquired how, since by his own confession he had been such a short time in London, he had become cognisant of the man's history. He hesitated before replying. "Have I not told you once before to-night," he said, "that there are very few things in this world which are hidden from my knowledge? Were it necessary, I could tell you circumstances in your own life that you flatter yourself are known to no one but yourself. But do not let us talk of such things now. When I entered the room you were reading a paper. You hold it in your hand at this moment."