It was the room in which he had first seen Valentine Jernam. Two years and a half had passed since he had last entered it; and during that time Mr. Milsom had been paying the penalty of his misdeeds in Van Dieman's Land. This dingy little den, with its greasy walls and low, smoky ceiling, was a kind of paradise to the returned wanderer. Here, at least, was freedom. Here, at least, he was his own master: free to enjoy strong drinks and strong tobacco--free to be lazy when he pleased, and to work after the fashion that suited him best. He seated himself in one chair, and planted his legs on another. Then he took a short clay pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, and began to smoke, in a slow meditative manner, stopping every now and then to mutter to himself, between the puffs of tobacco. Mr. Milsom had finished his second pipe of shag tobacco, and had given utterance to more than one exclamation of anger and impatience, when the door was opened, and Dennis Wayman made his appearance, bearing a tray with a couple of covered dishes and a large pewter pot. "I thought I'd bring you your grub myself, mate," he said; "though I'm precious busy in yonder. I'm uncommonly glad to see you back again. I've been wondering where you was ever since you disappeared." "You'd have left off wondering if you'd known I was on the other side of this blessed world of ours. I thought you knew I was--" Mr. Milsom's delicacy of feeling prevented his finishing this speech. "I knew you had got into trouble," answered Mr. Wayman. "At least, I didn't know for certain, but I guessed as much; though sometimes I was half inclined to think you had turned cheat, and given me the slip." "Bolted with the swag, I suppose you mean?" "Precisely!" answered Dennis Wayman, coolly. "Which shows your suspicious nature," returned Milsom, in a sulky tone. "When an unlucky chap turns his back upon his comrades, the worst word in their mouths isn't half bad enough for him. That's the way of the world, that is. No, Dennis Wayman; I didn't bolt with the swag--not sixpence of Valentine Jernam's money have I had the spending of; no even what I won from him at cards. I was nobbled one day, without a moment's warning, on a twopenny-halfpenny charge of burglary--never you mind whether it was true, or whether it was false--that ain't worth going into. I was took under a false name, and I stuck to that false name, thinking it more convenient. I should have sent to let you know, if I could have found a safe hand to take my message; but I couldn't find a living creature that was anything like safe--so there I was, remanded on a Monday, tried on a Tuesday, and then a fortnight after shipped off like a bullock, along of so many other bullocks; and that's the long and the short of it." After having said which, Mr. Milsom applied himself to his supper, which consisted of a smoking steak, and a dish of still more smoking potatoes.