“Let us turn up this street,” he said, suddenly. “I know a nice little quiet place where we can have a drink in comfort.” I followed him. Strange as it may seem, I was for the time being incapable of resistance. Perhaps my new-found friend was a hypnotist, or something of the kind; if he did not actually possess occult powers, he certainly had the gift in a very marked degree of ingratiating himself with strangers. As we walked along side by side he kept up a lively and interesting conversation, touching lightly upon a variety of subjects. He evidently possessed a well-stored mind, for his fund of knowledge and anecdote seemed almost inexhaustible. I became so interested in what he was telling me--wonderful adventures he said he had had in South America, and a graphic description of how diamonds are found--that I did not notice where I was being led. All I know is that we traversed street after street, until at length the man whom I had offered to guide to Hope Street had taken me to a part of the city in which I never remember having previously been. [Illustration: “’EXCUSE ME, SIR,’ HE SAID, WITH MUCH POLITENESS, AT THE SAME TIME SLIGHTLY RAISING HIS HAT, ‘BUT I BELIEVE THIS IS YOUR HANDKERCHIEF.’”] Then suddenly he halted in front of a most respectable-looking whisky shop--in England we call them public-houses--situated in a broad thoroughfare, busy with plenty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic. It did not strike me as being a particularly “quiet” place; in fact, whilst it may have been comfortable enough inside, its exterior surroundings were not likely to recommend it to those in search of solitude. “Here we are, my young friend,” he said, with that smile which had now become almost irresistible to me. The inside fittings of the place were what may be termed “flashy,” immense gilded mirrors and crimson-covered seats being the outstanding features in the general scheme of furnishing and decoration. A mahogany, tumbler-laden bar, with shelves of massed bottles in the background, ran the whole length of the apartment, whilst on the other side were a range of what I can best describe as cubicles, though in public-house parlance I suppose they would be called “snugs.” There was a door to each of these box-like apartments, though the ceiling of the saloon was common to them all. “Come in here,” urged my friend, tugging at my coat-sleeve. “It will be quieter, and no one will disturb us.” We entered the “snug,” which contained a long narrow table, with horsehair-padded seats on either side, an oblong window, half screened, serving to let in a rather subdued light. Scarcely had I got both my feet inside when I observed with surprise that the place had already an occupant, a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who at that moment was studiously engaged in perusing the columns of a newspaper. My companion, noticing my hesitation, exclaimed in a cheery voice, “It’s all right, my boy; I’m sure our friend won’t object.”