“But, gracious goodness me!” I cried, “who is there to rob you in a place like this?” “I can form no opinion,” he replied. “I have no idea. I was lying in a ditch inanimate. This is a degrading confession, sir; I can only say in self-defence that perhaps (in your good nature) you have made yourself partly responsible for my shame. I am not used to these rich wines.” “In what form was your money? Perhaps it may be traced,” I suggested. “It was in English sovereigns. I changed it in New York; I got very good exchange,” he said, and then, with a momentary outbreak, “God in heaven, how I toiled for it!” he cried. “That doesn't sound encouraging,” said I. “It may be worth while to apply to the police, but it doesn't sound a hopeful case.” “And I have no hope in that direction,” said Bellairs. “My hopes, Mr. Dodd, are all fixed upon yourself. I could easily convince you that a small, a very small advance, would be in the nature of an excellent investment; but I prefer to rely on your humanity. Our acquaintance began on an unusual footing; but you have now known me for some time, we have been some time--I was going to say we had been almost intimate. Under the impulse of instinctive sympathy, I have bared my heart to you, Mr. Dodd, as I have done to few; and I believe--I trust--I may say that I feel sure--you heard me with a kindly sentiment. This is what brings me to your side at this most inexcusable hour. But put yourself in my place--how could I sleep--how could I dream of sleeping, in this blackness of remorse and despair? There was a friend at hand--so I ventured to think of you; it was instinctive; I fled to your side, as the drowning man clutches at a straw. These expressions are not exaggerated, they scarcely serve to express the agitation of my mind. And think, sir, how easily you can restore me to hope and, I may say, to reason. A small loan, which shall be faithfully repaid. Five hundred dollars would be ample.” He watched me with burning eyes. “Four hundred would do. I believe, Mr. Dodd, that I could manage with economy on two.” “And then you will repay me out of Carthew's pocket?” I said. “I am much obliged. But I will tell you what I will do: I will see you on board a steamer, pay your fare through to San Francisco, and place fifty dollars in the purser's hands, to be given you in New York.” He drank in my words; his face represented an ecstasy of cunning thought. I could read there, plain as print, that he but thought to overreach me. “And what am I to do in 'Frisco?” he asked. “I am disbarred, I have no trade, I cannot dig, to beg----” he paused in the citation. “And you know that I am not alone,” he added, “others depend upon me.” “I will write to Pinkerton,” I returned. “I feel sure he can help you to some employment, and in the meantime, and for three months after your arrival, he shall pay to yourself personally, on the first and the fifteenth, twenty-five dollars.”