Wale put the lid on in case his employer might hear any more of his sentiments. Philip, leaning back to laugh, for Wale's vocabulary was amusing, if not fit for publication, suddenly realized the queer trick that even the events in the life of an individual have of repeating themselves. In one day, after an interval of many years, he had been suddenly confronted by personages connected with the period of his sufferings, with the very garments he wore at that time, with the cab in which he drove from Clerkenwell to Hatton Garden. Abingdon had dined with him; Isaacstein had sent him a message; his driver, even, was the cabman who made him a present of two shillings, a most fortunate transaction for Wale, as it led to his selection to look after Philip's London stable. All who had befriended the forlorn boy in those early days had benefited to an extraordinary degree. The coffee-stall keeper who gave him coffee grounds and crusts, the old clothes man who cut down the price of his first outfit, Mrs. Wrigley, going hopelessly to her toil in a Shepherd's Bush laundry; Mr. Wilson, of Grant & Sons, the kindly jeweler of Ludgate Hill, were each sought out, and either placed in a good business or bounteously rewarded for the services they had rendered. O'Brien, of course, was found a sinecure office at the Mary Anson Home. As for the doctor, he owed his Harley Street practice to the millionaire's help and patronage. It is worthy of note that Philip never wore a watch other than that presented to him by the police of the Whitechapel Division. It was an ordinary English silver lever, and he carried it attached to a knotted bootlace. Did he but know how far the historical parallel had gone that day--how Jocky Mason had waited for hours outside his residence in the hope of seeing him and becoming acquainted with his appearance--he might have been surprised, but he would never have guessed the evil that this man would accomplish, and, in some measure, accomplish unconsciously. He was not in his club five minutes when a friend tackled him for a concert subscription. "Anson, you are fond of music. Here is a new violinist, a Hungarian, who wants a start. I heard him in Budapest last autumn. He is a good chap. Take some stalls." Philip glanced at the program. "Eckstein at the piano. I see! He must be a star. Who is the soprano? I have never heard her name before." "Miss Evelyn Atherley," read his friend over his shoulder. "I don't know her myself. Dine with me here to-morrow night. We will go and hear the performance afterward." "Can you distribute stalls among your acquaintances?" "My dear fellow, I will be delighted. Sorry I can't help Jowkacsy a bit myself." "You are helping him very well. I will take a dozen; two for you and me; ten elsewhere, for the claque." "You _are_ a good chap. Hello! There's Jones. Jones is good for a couple. Don't forget to-morrow night."