‘Sir,’ said Montressor, with dignity, ‘these are me friends, both the young man and the old. I do not turn to strangers to ask for information concerning me friends. Ye may be well meaning, but ye are ignorant--and I find ye intrusive,’ said the actor, turning away with a wave of his hand. ‘Sandford!’ cried William Barrett. Capitals could not do justice to the injured majesty of this cry. Intrusive! In the rooms of a pupil taken without a premium (that even he remembered in the shock of the indignity), such a word to be applied to him! But John said nothing. He was stupefied, or mad, or drunk, which was it? He scarcely gave his employer a look. The colour had disappeared from his face, his eyes seemed to have a film over them, his lips trembled. He said at last, almost inaudibly, looking straight before him at vacancy, ‘My real name is John May--that was my name when I was a child--the other--is my grandfather’s name.’ Then the man who had injured John, who had taken his plans from him and robbed him, and made him appear a traitor, rose up tottering, supporting himself by the table. ‘If it’s your grandfather’s name,’ he said, ‘and you were Johnnie May when you were a child---- God help us all, it’s fourteen years ago. Are you my little chap, my little man, that I used to take out of your bed in your nightgown, with your bonny bright eyes shining? Oh, God in heaven, I’m not fit to be any good lad’s father. Are you my little boy? Are you Johnnie May?’ The room and all that was in it swam in dark circles of confusing mist in John’s eyes. He grasped a chair to support himself, to defend himself; the floor seemed to give way under his feet. ‘I’ll--I’ll come back presently,’ he said. Mr. Barrett thought more and more, with a grieved heart, that the young fellow must have been drinking, as with a sudden rush he gained the door, and clung to that again for a moment, like a man who has no control of his limbs or movements. There he paused, and, looking at them, said, ‘Wait: wait here: till I come back----’ Mr. Barrett followed him quickly, afraid of what might follow. He found John ghastly and helpless, sitting on the step of the outer door. The young man gave a little nod of his head. ‘Wait,’ he gasped, ‘I’ll be better--in a moment--I want a little air.’ ‘Sandford, what is the matter? Something has happened to you; what are you going to do?’ John did not answer for a minute. He sat with his mouth open taking long breaths, as if the air had been a cordial which he was gulping down in mouthfuls. The street was very quiet, there was nobody in sight, and the air of early summer was fresh and a little chill in afternoon greyness. Presently the young man rose and smiled faintly at his companion. ‘I’m better,’ he said. ‘I’m fit now for what I’ve got to do.’ ‘Tell me, Sandford, what is it you are going to do? Nothing desperate, I hope. I came to tell you I was ready to hear any explanation--’