One night Mr. Effingham was sitting in a very moody state at "Johnson's," sipping his grog and wondering vaguely what would be the next best move to make in his pursuit of Miss Gillespie, when raising his eyes, they encountered Mr. Griffiths,--Mr. Griffiths, and not Mr. Griffiths. Gone was the tall shiny hat, its place occupied by a knowing billy-cock; gone were the rusty old clothes, while in their place were garments of provincial cut indeed, but obviously costly material; a slouch poncho greatcoat kept Mr. Griffiths's body warm, while Mr. Griffiths's boots, very much contrary to their usual custom, were sound and whole, and hid Mr. Griffiths's feet from the garish eye of day. Moreover, Mr. Griffiths's manner, usually a pleasing compound of the bearing of Ugolino and the demeanour of the Banished Lord, was, for him, remarkably sprightly. He threw open the swing-door, and brought in his body squarely, instead of butting vaguely in with the tall hat, as was his usual custom; he walked down the centre of the room, instead of shuffling round by the wall; and advancing to the box in which Mr. Effingham was seated in solitary misery, he clapped him on the back and said, "D'Ossay, my buck, how are you?" The appearance, the manner, and the swaggering speech had a great effect on Mr. Effingham. He looked up, and after shaking hands with his friend, remarked, "You've been doin' it up brown, Griffiths,--you have. They must have suffered for this down about Hull and Grimsby, I should think?" And with a comprehensive sweep of his forefinger he took in Griffiths's outer man from his hat to his boots. "Well, it warn't bad," said Mr. Griffiths, with a bland smile. "The yokels bled wonderful, and the traps kept off very well, considerin' I'm pretty full of ochre, I am; and so far as a skiv or two goes, I'm ready to stand friend to them as stood friend to me, D'Ossay, my boy. No? Not hard up? Have a drink then, and tell us what's been going on." The drink was ordered, and Mr. Effingham began to dilate on the various phases of his pursuit of Lizzie Ponsford. As he proceeded, Mr. Griffiths went through a series of pantomimic gestures, which with him were significant of attempts to arouse a dormant memory. He rubbed his head, he scratched his ear, he looked up with a singularly vacant air at the pendent gas-light, he regarded his boots as though they were strange objects come for the first time within his ken. At length, when Mr. Effingham ceased, he spoke. "It must have been her!" said he, ungrammatically but emphatically, at the same time bringing his fist down heavily on the table to express his assertion. "What must have been her, Griffiths?" inquired Mr. Effingham, who was growing irritated by the extremely independent tone of his usually deferential subordinate,--"why don't you talk out, instead of snuffling to yourself and makin' those faces at me? What must have been her?"