Going down the Canongate one day I was accosted by a little treacherous rascal known as Dirty Dick. I suppose he had followed me down the street for the purpose of so addressing me, but at the moment I did not think much of the circumstance. Dick was not particularly dirty in his appearance or person, so it is possible he had got the name rather for some dirty trick or act of treachery. He had the distinction of being heartily despised by every one who knew him, myself included. After a little preliminary patter, to throw me off my guard, Dick said— “Bob Brettle has finished his time and got back here.” That, then, was Dick’s business with me. Had he quarrelled with the convict and ticket-of-leave man he named? I knew perfectly well that the reckless Bob Brettle had returned, for he had duly reported himself to us, as bound by his ticket-of-leave, but I thought proper to say innocently in reply— “Has he, really?” “Yes,” continued Dick, with animation; “I’ve seen him often, and know where he hangs out—Brierly’s, in the Grassmarket. Is a straight tip of any use to you?” I looked at the rascal, and if the imp had only had the sense of an owl he would have seen how contemptuous was the glance. But it is given to some natures to be perfectly unconscious of the loathing they inspire, and Dick’s was one of these. “I’ll tell you when I get it,” was my reply. I did not expect Dick to give me any news or promp me to anything that was not likely to benefit himself. “Well, you’ll soon have Bob Brettle in your hands again,” said Dick, button-holing me with an affectionate caress, which made my flesh creep. “He’s planning something now. I don’t know what the job is, but it’s something dashing and daring. If he was took at the same old game, wouldn’t it be ten years this time?” “What was his last term?” I asked, affecting ignorance. “Seven.” “Well, you don’t need to ask, knowing that,” I said, making Dick uncomfortable with a steady stare. “If you was to watch him well, and get me to help you, I believe you’d be sure of nabbing him,” said the traitor temptingly. “Oh, you’ve quarrelled with him, then?” I sharply returned. “Not me!” he exclaimed with great fervour. I set the answer down as a lie, but pursued— “Well, you think to get money for the dirty work of betraying him?” “Not a penny,” he vociferated, with a tremendous oath, “and there’ll be no betraying about it. Only I thought you’d be always glad to hear the news or get a tip. You helped me so much in that last fix that I haven’t forgot it;” and the villain tried to put on a sentimental and grateful look by way of drawing a red herring across my path. I was not deceived, but Dick’s next words were lost to me. I was thinking hard, and trying to account for Dick’s sudden zeal in the cause of law and order. He did not want money—I was bound to believe that at least;—could he have an old grudge at Brettle, or was this freak of treachery only the result of a quarrel?