‘Why should I trouble you with my vexations?’ cried John. But in the end he yielded to the natural satisfaction of recounting all that had happened to a sympathetic--almost too sympathetic--ear. Montressor’s was no indifferent backing of his friend. He threw himself with his whole soul into the wrongs of the unfortunate young man. Indeed, so entirely did he enter into John’s case that John felt himself restored to hopeful life, half by the sympathy, and perhaps a little more than half by the genial absurdity that seemed to glide into everything from Montressor’s devoted zeal. The light came back to the skies more completely in this humorous way than if some happy incident had restored it. He began to see through the exaggeration of his friend’s feeling, that after all there was something laughable in his own despair, and that a man is not ruined in a moment in any such stagy and artificial way. While this change began to operate, and while John poured forth his tale, he pursued the familiar way to his lodgings instinctively, leading the sympathetic Montressor with him without question asked. The actor had never before penetrated so far. It had not occurred to John to invite him, especially as he had never informed him of his real name. The fact that he had been so foolish as to call himself May to this early acquaintance had raised a barrier between them more effectual than any barrier of prudence or sense that such a friendship was not one to be cultivated. But in the fervour of his confidence, and in the enthusiasm of Montressor’s sympathy, the consolation of it and the ridicule of it, everything else was forgotten. And John found himself at his own door with his faithful sympathiser before he was aware. He had opened it and bidden his friend to enter when his eye was suddenly caught by a slouching figure on the opposite side of the street, which aroused another set of feelings altogether. John thrust Montressor in, calling on him to sit down and wait, and then turning with a bound rushed across the street in the direction of this lounger, who, suddenly taking fright, had turned too, and was hurrying along as fast as a wavering pair of legs would carry him. The legs were unsteady, and little to be depended upon, though sudden panic inspired them, and they were worth nothing in comparison with youth and hot indignation now suddenly set on their track. The chase lasted but a minute. John made up to the fluttering, retreating figure, and was just about, with outstretched hand, to seize him, when the pursued suddenly turned round, meeting him with a rueful, deprecating, yet woefully smiling face, in which the same ridicule which had been rising in John’s mind towards himself was blended with a sort of helpless despair and insinuating prayer for mercy. ‘Stop,’ cried his amanuensis, the traitor who had ruined him, with that rueful smile, ‘I’ll go with you anywhere--take me where you please. I--I can’t defend myself.’