Safety, wealth, and a future secure from the fears that now tortured him, would be the consequence to him. If he were to die now! Grahame’s heart throbbed, and he felt cold as ice. He threw his eyes stealthily round the library. He was alone! The man was old. How small a thing might rob him of life; a common accident--a potion administered in mistake--a subtle poison in fruit. Mr. Grahame rose from his chair. Could he have seen the aspect of his own features at this moment in the glass, he would have almost screamed with horror. He tottered rather than walked to a book-case, and ran his eye down the back of his books; presently he clutched at one, drew it out, and moved back with it to the immediate vicinity of the lamp. The book was labelled _On Poisons_. With a hand which shook as if it was smitten with the palsy, he turned over a few of the leaves, and began reading with some avidity, an article on “Strychnos Tieuté, &c.” Deeply interested in the revelations, he became unconscious of all else, until the pressure of a heavy hand upon his shoulder caused him to start with fright, and to spring back several feet. Just where he had been standing, he beheld a grim, dirty-looking man, whose clothes where shabby, greasy, and dusty; whose face was pale, and whose eyes were red; whose matted hair was straggling over his forehead, and whose thick, stubbly beard, rendered his grimy visage yet more foul in its aspect. Mr. Grahame stretched his hand towards the bell. A sudden motion on the part of the stranger arrested his attention, and then he saw, for the first time, that his visitor was no other than Mr. Chewkle. He gazed upon him with an emotion which partook of offended pride, uneasy wonder, and a lurking, darkly foreboding fear. Mr. Chewkle now present was not, at least in appearance, the Mr. Chewkle first introduced to our readers. Then he was the decently-clad commission agent; now he was the dirty ruffian. The change was so remarkable as to extort an immediate remark from Mr. Grahame, who, with knitted brows, demanded of him how he came to visit him in such filthy guise. “Never mind about that,” returned Mr. Chewkle, evincing by the tone of his voice, his intention to dispense with ceremony and with deferential respect. “I ain’t come here on a holiday visit, I can tell you. I came about that forger----” “Hush--hush, man! are you mad that you speak so loud?” interrupted Mr. Grahame excitedly. “Almost mad, and no mistake,” cried Mr. Chewkle, drawing the dirty cuff of his coat across his parched and blackened lips. “I’ve been hunted like a dog by the hofiicers, but I ain’t been run down yet, and I shan’t be, if you does the thing that’s rights and you must, or by----” “No threats, man,” again interposed Mr. Grahame, attempting to assume a firm and haughty manner. “Tell me how it is you appear before me in this disreputable condition, and for what you wish, in thus forcing upon me an interview at so unseasonable an hour?”