'His name?' repeated Mark, who had not expected this and had no name ready for such immediate use. 'Let me see; I almost forget. It began with a B I know; Brown--Brune--something like that--I really don't recollect just now. But the fact is,' he added with a desperate recourse to detail, 'the first time I saw the beggar he looked so hard up, dressed in----' ('Buckram!' thought Caffyn, but he said nothing)--'in rags, you know, that I felt it would be quite a charity to employ him.' 'So it is,' agreed Caffyn. 'Did he write a good hand? I might be able to give him some work myself in copying out parts.' 'Oh, he'd be useless for that!' put in Mark with some alarm; 'he wrote a wretched hand.' 'Well, but in the cause of charity, you know,' rejoined Caffyn, with inward delight. 'Hang it, Ashburn, why shouldn't _I_ do an unselfish thing as well as you? What's the fellow's address?' 'He--he's emigrated,' said Mark; 'you'd find it rather difficult to come across him now.' 'Should I?' Caffyn returned; 'well, I daresay I should.' And Mark rose and went to one of the windows for some air. He remained there for a short time looking idly down the darkening street. A chapel opposite was just discharging its congregation, and he found entertainment in watching the long lighted ground-glass windows, as a string of grotesque silhouettes filed slowly across them, like a shadow pantomime turned serious. When he was tired of that and turned away from the blue-grey dusk, the luxurious comfort of the room struck him afresh. 'You've made yourself uncommonly comfortable here,' he said appreciatively, as he settled down again in his velvet-pile chair. 'Well, I flatter myself I've improved the look of the place since you saw it last. Poor Holroyd, you see, never cared to go in for this kind of thing. Queer reserved fellow, wasn't he?' 'Very,' said Mark; and then, with the perverse impulse which drives us to test dangerous ice, he added: 'Didn't you say, though, the other evening that he had no secrets from you?' ('Trying to pump _me_, are you?' thought the other; 'but you don't!') 'Did I?' he answered, 'sometimes I fancy, now and then, that I knew less of him than I thought I did. For instance, he was very busy for a long time before he left England over something or other, but he never told me what it was. I used to catch him writing notes and making extracts and so on.... _You_ were a great friend of his, Ashburn, weren't you? Do you happen to know whether he was engaged on some work which would account for that, now? Did he ever mention to you that he was writing a book, for instance?' 'Never,' said Mark; 'did he--did he hint that to you?' 'Never got a word out of him; but I daresay you, who knew him best, will laugh when I tell you this, I always had my suspicions that he was writing a novel.' 'A novel?' echoed Mark; 'Holroyd! Excuse me, my dear fellow, I really can't help laughing--it does seem such a comic idea.'