'You're seeing me now.' 'This is a matter on which I can hardly enter, here, and now. I should prefer, with your permission, to see you again to-morrow. 'To-morrow's Sunday.' 'That makes no difference to me.' 'Oh! you don't honour the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.' He emptied his glass. 'Give me some more.' A bottle of whisky was standing at his elbow. I poured some out. When I was proceeding to dilute it with water, he stopped me. 'None of that. Neat.' He swallowed what I had given him. 'Thank God for alcohol. There's nothing like it, when you've got where I am.--What's that you were saying about wanting to see me to-morrow?' 'Where can I see you--and when?' 'Where? In the grave; if I keep on feeling like I'm feeling now. I've slept too much.--Give me some more.' He tilted his glass. 'You've had enough.' 'D----n you, man, what the devil do you mean by telling me I've had enough? I never have enough. If I had all that's in the world I wouldn't have enough. It's my stuff, not yours. Give me some more.' I poured him out a little. 'Don't stint, you're not paying.' Again he swallowed at a gulp what I had given him. It seemed, instead of stupefying, to clear his head. 'That's more like it. Now I'm feeling better. After half a bottle I'm pretty well, and after a bottle I'm nearly right. Listen to me. I'll see you tomorrow, Sunday morning, at the York Hotel, in Stamford Street. After twelve o'clock. Say half-past. Make a note of it.' 'I will.' 'And mind you're there.' 'I will be there. Mind you also are there.' 'If I'm alive I'll be there. You ask for Mr. Montagu Babbacombe--that's me. Let me see, your name's----' 'Smith.' 'Smith. Oh, yes, Smith. You look a Smith. I knew a Smith once who was just like you; one of the nicest fellows that ever breathed. Only an awful thief! And such a liar! Perhaps you knew him too. Might have been a brother. Did you ever have a brother who was hung? He was. What's the other name?' 'My name's John Smith, sir, to you.' 'Very well, Mr. John Smith to me, I shall expect to see you to-morrow, Sunday morning, at the York Hotel in Stamford Street, at half-past twelve. And you be there! If you're not there, I hope that you'll be hung; like your brother. You understand? 'Perfectly.' There was a noise at the back. Turning, I perceived that it was caused by the entrance of Mr. Augustus FitzHoward. I understood that it was time for me to take my leave. I thought it possible that the newcomer might find it difficult to induce Mr. Babbacombe to leave the chair on which he was seated, before finishing the bottle of whisky--which was still half full. I had no wish to witness any discussion of the kind. CHAPTER V AT THE YORK HOTEL