"No, Loudon, no more--not a word more! I don't want to hear," cried Jim. "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you," said I; "for it's a thing I'm ashamed of." "Ashamed, Loudon? O, don't say that; don't use such an expression, even in jest!" protested Pinkerton. "Do you never do anything you're ashamed of?" I inquired. "No," says he, rolling his eyes; "why? I'm sometimes sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured. But I can't see what I would want to be ashamed for." I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend's character. Then I sighed. "Do you know, Jim, what I'm sorriest for?" said I. "At this rate I can't be best man at your marriage." "My marriage!" he repeated, echoing the sigh. "No marriage for me now. I'm going right down to-night to break it to her. I think that's what's shaken me all day. I feel as if I had had no right (after I was engaged) to operate so widely." "Well, you know, Jim, it was my doing, and you must lay the blame on me," said I. "Not a cent of it!" he cried. "I was as eager as yourself, only not so bright at the beginning. No; I've myself to thank for it; but it's a wrench." While Jim departed on his dolorous mission, I returned alone to the office, lit the gas, and sat down to reflect on the events of that momentous day: on the strange features of the tale that had been so far unfolded, the disappearances, the terrors, the great sums of money; and on the dangerous and ungrateful task that awaited me in the immediate future.