When the porter had placed the portmanteau in the bedroom, and he and the waiter had retired, Mr. Dunn threw himself into an easy-chair, and with his arms folded and his legs crossed, fell into a reverie, which lasted until he was aroused by a knock at the door. He did not call out 'Come in' until he had retired to his bedroom, half closing after him the door of communication, and through the crack watched the operation of lighting the fire by the kneeling chambermaid. When the girl had retired, Mr. Dunn emerged from the bedroom, and made straight for the window. A great breadth of street between the hotel and the opposite houses; no chance of his being overlooked. He walked quietly to the door, turned the key, and settled it so in the lock as to prevent his being spied upon from the outside; then, with soft quick steps, entered the bedroom and immediately came out again, bringing with him the hand-bag which he himself carried up the stairs. A momentary hesitation now, and a stealthy and sharp look round; the next minute the bag is open, and Mr. Dunn has taken from it and laid upon the table the sailor's dress which Tom Summers wore in the low tavern and the tramps' lodging-house, and at the same time has produced from his breast-pocket a long shiny pair of scissors. With these he makes short work of the sailor's suit, tearing and ripping it into strips, and cutting these strips into smaller pieces, which he gathers together in a heap in the middle of the table. Then Mr. Dunn, returning to the bedroom, unlocks the portmanteau which he had received from the cloak-room at Lime-street, lays out his dressing materials on the table and some clothes on a chair, takes a Bradshaw and a Tourist's Guide to Ireland with him into the sitting-room, and then, with a sudden effort, gathers the whole heap of cut and tattered clothing in his arms, and throws it on to the fire, which by this time is blazing brightly. Some of the little bits of blue cloth take fire at once, and go eddying up the chimney--others smoulder slowly; but Mr. Dunn stands in front of the fireplace, gazing at the grate, now and then patting and forming its contents with the shovel, until no fragment of the clothes remains visible--only white dust and charred ashes. Then he throws back his shoulders and stretches out his arms like one rid of an intolerable burden, and heaves a great sigh of relief. Quick now, for the burning cloth has left a pungent, titillating, acrid smell, which must be attended to immediately. Mr. Dunn draws an easy-chair to the corner of the table close by the fireplace, and rumples the antimacassar, which has been laid on by careful hands; then takes the Tourist's Guide, places it on the table in close proximity to the chair, opens it, and places his gold pencil-case between the leaves; lastly, he takes a shovelful of red-hot coals from the grate, and deliberately strews them over the hearthrug; then he quietly quits the room, leaving the door open behind him.