"Mr. Gilby is making merry at my expense," he remarked. "However, he is welcome to do so. I can only say that I wish I had never been to some of the places he speaks of. Until one has been to a place, one cannot tell that it is objectionable." Harry was beginning to practise some of the lessons in hypocrisy which he had learned from Silas Sleech. He was very uncomfortable all the rest of the evening. Gilby's mocking eye constantly fell on him, and he fancied that even his cousins regarded him with looks of suspicion. He returned home. Silas Sleech was sitting up for him. "I am glad you have come at last," he said. "I have been fearfully troubled by a business of great importance, and I really do not know how to settle it. You can help me. Indeed, I rather think that you are bound to do so. I handed over to you a pretty large sum last night. I little thought that not twenty-four hours would pass before I myself should be in want of it." Sleech dropped his voice. "Harry, you are a good, honest fellow. I must take you into my confidence. Don't be horrified--I'm an utterly ruined man." "I'm sorry to hear it," said Harry. "There's little use expressing sorrow unless you are disposed to help me. You can do it if you please, I can assure you. All I want you to do is to put your name to a few bits of paper and ask no questions. I know it's like begging you to put unbounded confidence in me. Perhaps you will say I don't deserve it, and yet I wish you knew my heart, Harry, how anxious I am to serve you." Several decanters stood on the table before Mr. Sleech. Harry had already taken a good deal of wine at his uncle's. Sleech urged him to take more. The weather was hot. He felt thirsty. Those were drinking days, the virtue of temperance was seldom inculcated. On the contrary, the more a man could drink, the better he was thought of by his ordinary companions. Sleech smiled as he saw Harry toss off tumbler after tumbler of wine. It was cool claret, and tasted like water. The tempter had now his victim more than ever in his hands. The papers were brought out. Harry put his name to several. "I wish you could write old Kyffin's name as well as you do your own," observed Sleech, "or your uncle's. I say, Harry, why were you not called Stephen Coppinger? Your grandmother's name was Coppinger, wasn't it? In my opinion it's a better name than Tryon. Better, at all events, on 'change--Tryon's not worth much there, I have a notion, and Coppinger is worth whatever amount Stephen Coppinger chooses to put above it. Don't trouble yourself about that amount you owe me--a few hundreds only. You forget all about it now, very likely. However, just let me get these papers in circulation, and I will never trouble you again about it." "Give it me," said Harry; "I wish I had never signed it," a sudden flash of sense coming across his mind.