"Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself, Wingate. I'm as poor as a church-rat--you can guess that from my clothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment with eighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would give me credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Next week I may not have that. But I don't moan and whine; I set my teeth and smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, they shall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather." He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst. Wingate felt in his pockets. "I haven't much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you can square the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall be delighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name a sum." "Would ten pounds be too much?" asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitating voice. For the moment, his assurance seemed to have forsaken him; he seemed to realise to what he had fallen. "Not at all." The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict, together with the two pounds in cash. For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet and subdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill. "I cannot find words to thank you," he told his benefactor, "I can only say, God bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself, in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. I should like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history." Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-down creature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompous front. "I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took the place. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. He was a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was young and gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he had stripped me of every penny." Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggerating when he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin. There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards his own downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit as much? "But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, and was beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of a company he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our old friend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tell you. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country for fear of arrest." Wingate pricked up his ears. "You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting, if you saw it?" "Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession. If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you them to-night." Wingate rose quickly. "Is it far?"