“I thought of a hundred ways of raising money, and I knew that some of our fellows borrow money of Jews; I did not know what to do. Whilst I was sitting over the _Times_ and a cigar in my own quarters, my eye caught an advertisement about ‘money to lend.’” Mr. Wilkinson grew particularly interested at this point, for a detective friend of his had told him some time ago that he had been on the trail of Shuffleton Gibbs, who had slipped him, in the character, he believed, of an advertising money-lender. “I replied to the advertisement, and had a letter by return of post requesting me to call at No. 15, Chaucer-street, Lincoln’s-inn-fields. I called, and was requested to fill up a long form, in which I answered a great many questions; but I concealed my connection with the army. My life was to be insured, and a bill of exchange, backed by one good name besides my own, for two hundred and fifty pounds would secure to me two hundred for three months. I paid the two guineas and a fee the next day for medical examination. Two days afterwards they informed me that the medical officer of the company had made an unfavourable report with regard to the state of my health, and that the loan could not therefore be granted.” “Of course,” said Mr. Williamson, lighting another cigar. “I asked for the return of the fees which I had paid, and was informed that no fees were ever returned. I felt that I had been swindled, but still could not rest until I had undergone an examination by our own surgeon, and been reported sound in wind and limb.” “Well,” said Mr. Wilkinson, “you have been making experience; your story grows in interest; make a clean breast of it, perhaps I can help you.” “I did not know what to do next; somehow these advertisements attracted my attention again. I found one which really did seem honest. It stated that gentlemen in the army and others requiring temporary loans might obtain them with strict privacy on application to Mr. Jefferson Crawley, at Titchwell-street West. I wrote to Mr. Crawley, determined not to be done a second time. I was desired to call, and with some difficulty I found the place--rather a queer place, too; through a mews, and in a back, out-of-the-way corner I found a shabby-looking office, and entered. A small boy sat at a small desk and said his master was out, and whilst he was saying so a girl came into the office by a flight of stairs at the back.” “Oh, there’s a woman in the case, is there?” said Mr. Wilkinson, in a somewhat cynical tone. Paul threw the stump end of a cigar out of window, and coughed to conceal some little confusion which this part of the narrative occasioned him. “I know you will say I have been a fool,” he said, with unusual energy; “but I can’t help it.”