I left the house, after bidding Mr Bannister a not over-gracious farewell, and Peter Hart was promptly set at liberty, with much crowing and exultation on his part. The next day or two I spent chiefly in trying to guess at the nature of the hold which Peter exercised over the gentleman. That he was the spider and Mr Bannister the fly, I felt certain after making some inquiries regarding the character of the latter. Mr Bannister was spoken of by all as the soul of honour and goodness. I was more than disappointed at losing Peter—I was angry; for in leaving he did not scruple to say some nasty things regarding my capacity, and to hint in a lordly fashion that any other attempt to interfere with him would be followed by a letter “from his lawyer.” I replied, in the irritation of the moment, that I should probably interfere with him before long in such a way that his lawyer would be powerless to help him or injure us. I ought not to have spoken so rashly, but then I felt savage, and, as good luck would have it, the very boldness of the threat added to my reputation when the spider-devourer had adjusted things nicely to my hands. Thus many of us live—continually tottering between a great success and a great failure. To the spider-devourer I now come, though, of course, I did not at first recognise him in that character. Not many days after Peter’s release I was accosted at the head of Leith Walk by a sharp-witted fellow, pretty well known to me, named Dick M^cQueen. Dick was not a thief, but one who lived chiefly by billiards and cards. He had been ostler, waiter, boots, groom, cabdriver, and I know not all what by turns, and was about as keen a blade as it is possible to become by continually rubbing edges with others as sharp. He was always poor, and I think was partly supported by relatives at a distance. “I believe you said you’d take Peter Hart before long,” he said to me, after some of that preliminary talk which conjurers and men of the world use to throw one off his guard. “Did I?” was my careless reply. “You’ll never do it single-handed,” he darkly continued, “but if you could make it worth my while I’m ready to give you the straight tip, which will book him for twenty years.” “What do you mean?” “Twenty years to him is surely worth as many pounds to me?” he suggestively returned. “Perhaps, but I’m not in a position to offer anything; indeed, I’d much rather do the work myself.” “You can’t, for Peter’s got a gent at his back who’ll stand any amount of bleeding, and he doesn’t need to put out a hand now. Now, if you could only help me to find out who that gent is, I believe he’d stand a poney to get rid of Peter.” I watched Dick’s face keenly for some moments in silence. “You don’t know who the gent is, then?” I said at last, suspiciously. “No; I’ve tried hard to find out, and I’ve watched Peter all over the town to no purpose. He’s too blessed fly for me.”