“Useless. How could I prove the persecution? I fled to London; the wretch followed me there; I took the first train from the place; it landed me at one of their pleasure gardens—the grounds of the Crystal Palace, I think. I enjoyed myself there; when all at once my fiend—my tormentor—as I must call him—appeared before me. I ran from the spot; a balloon was just starting; I leaped in, cut the rope, and shot up into the air, laughing in triumph at the chagrin of my persecutor.” “That was a neat escape,” observed M^cSweeny; “but how did ye get down again?” “The most awful part of the adventure was to come,” pursued Mr Stafford. “When I had got up a certain distance I got freezing cold, and thought to warm myself with a smoke. In striking a light some of the gas escaping from the balloon must have touched and exploded, for the next moment the whole thing was in shreds and flames, and I was flying towards earth with the speed of a cannon ball.” “And ye was kilt? Smashed to atoms?” exclaimed M^cSweeny in earnest horror, with his hands raised, and his eyes almost starting from their sockets. “No; fortunately I fell into the water, and, being an excellent swimmer, I managed to save myself. I returned to Edinburgh, but my tormentor was soon upon my track again, and even yet he continues his persecutions upon every occasion when there is no chance of being seen. Possibly he is at the bottom of this mysterious robbery.” M^cSweeny asked the name of this persecutor, and after a good deal of demur on the part of Mr Stafford, the name was given, when it proved to be that of an eminent professor, as renowned for his learning as for his goodness. M^cSweeny was a good deal staggered, but took leave, saying he would make inquiry into the matter, and see that Mr Stafford was annoyed no longer. When he came to me with his report I laughed outright, and said— “Why, the man’s mad! I wonder you did not see it in him before.” “What man? The Professor?” inquired M^cSweeny, with great simplicity. “No, this Mr Stafford.”