"Sheer nonsense, John. I have made a calculation, and I know, within a hundred or two, how much you are worth. Cast your eyes over these figures." To my surprise I discovered that his calculation was as nearly as possible correct, and that by some means he was fairly well acquainted with my pecuniary position. "It is for you to decide," he said. "I have something to sell which you are anxious to purchase. You can make either a friend or an enemy of me, and you know whether it will be worth your while to buy. I don't deny that I am hard up, and that in a certain sense you represent my last chance. I am not fool enough to throw it away. Understand clearly--I intend to make the best of it. You see, John, I hold the reins, and I can tool you comfortably down a safe and pleasant road, or I can send you headlong to the devil--and in your company Madame Virtue. I have learned something since last week. You are living here under an assumed name, and I have a suspicion that Madame Virtue is not aware of it. Another trump card in my hand. It rests with me whether I bring about an introduction between Barbara and Madame Virtue, and whether I bring your excellent stepmother and Louis down upon you. There's no escape for you, brother-in-law. Best make a friend of me, my boy, and keep the game to ourselves." In the end I consented, with some modification, to his terms, upon his promise that he would never molest me again; and so we parted. Months passed and I heard nothing more of him. Gradually I recovered my peace of mind. We were living modestly within our means; peace had been cheaply purchased. Our child was born, a boy. The delight he brought in our home cannot be described. He was a heavenly link in our love, and bound Ellen and me closely together. I will not dwell upon that joyful time. This confession is longer than I conceived it would be, and events of a more exciting nature claim attention. One evening upon my return home, after transacting some business in Bournemouth in connection with my affairs, Ellen, speaking of what had occurred during my absence, mentioned a gentlemanly beggar who had solicited alms from her. He had told her a plausible tale of unmerited misfortune, and of having been brought down in the world by trusting a friend who had deceived and robbed him. She described the man, and my heart was like lead; I recognized the villain. "He was so nice to baby," said Ellen, "and spoke so beautifully of our home. Poverty is much harder to gentlefolk who have been used to comfort than it is to poor people. I pitied him from my heart." "Beggars do not always say what is true," I observed. She looked at me in surprise. "He could hardly be called a beggar, John. Did I not do right in relieving him?" "Quite right, dear," I said, with an inward prayer that I was mistaken in the man. "I am quite sure he spoke the truth," she said, and there, as between us, the matter ended.