My discomfiture at the Dumpling's derisive repudiation of the supposition that he was John Carleton was completed next morning, when John Carleton himself returned to town, and John Carleton in the flesh I with my own eyes several times saw, as he went in and out of his house in Taunton Square. "That man," said I to myself, "should be an object-lesson to you in the futility of theory building. First, you called yourself a fool for not having seen that John Carleton was the Dumpling, and the Dumpling, John Carleton. Now, you have the pleasure of knowing yourself a double-distilled donkey, for ever having supposed anything of the sort." Upon the theory--the fact, as I had thought it to be--that John Carleton and the Dumpling were one and the same man, rested the only explanation I had to offer in regard to the letter I had received from the two Miss Carletons, aunt and niece. That theory being now entirely exploded, their extraordinary behaviour remained as much, if not more, of a mystery than ever. A mystery--so far as I was concerned--I decided that it might remain. Of detective work and of theory building I had had more than enough, and so I betook myself that very afternoon to Shadwell, to renew the investigations which my meeting with the Dumpling had interrupted. The first name on my list was that of a tailor's "hand," named Holmes, a widower who, I was told, had five young children, and was out of work. He was a consumptive-looking creature, hollow of cheek, eye, and chest, and with a hacking cough. "Yes, sir," he said civilly, in reply to my inquiries. "It is quite true that I am out of work, and that I have children; but I can't take your help, asking your pardon all the same, sir, for seeming rude and ungrateful." "On the contrary," I said, "it is I who have to apologise to you, Mr. Holmes, for what you might very well think my impertinence in coming here at all. But I happened to hear, quite by chance, how beautifully you keep your children; and how nice they always look; and learning that you were out of work, and being very, very fond of children (I haven't any myself: I wish I had), I thought there wouldn't be any harm, at least, in calling, just to see whether there were any little thing I could do for you, until you're in work again. I'm a working man, as you are, though I happen to work with a pen, while you happen to work with a needle. And I'm a poor man, too, for the matter of that; but just lately I chanced, by a stroke of luck, to make a pound or two more than usual, and when I have a stroke of luck I like to share it with someone who has been less lucky--just as I believe you'd be ready to share your good luck, when it comes, with me, if I happened to need it. But I respect your independence and pride, and I ask you again to forgive me for calling."