Jân-Ali-shân laid down the brush and the looking-glass. 'Hear?' he echoed, 'Lor' love you, they don't tell me them tales. I'm a _sahib_, I am. An' I wouldn't listen if they did. 'Tisn't as if we 'ad to do with words ourselves; but we ain't. "By their works shall ye know them," as it say in 'Oly Writ; an' if it come to that, sir, why, they shall know 'oo 's 'oo in John Ellison. An' now, sir, if you've done, I'll light you down them stairs, for of all the inconsiderate, on-Christian stairs a 'eathen ever built, them's the most disconcertin' in the "stilly night."' There was pure pathos in the voice that wandered off into the song. 'I didn't know you lived here, Ellison,' said Chris, following cautiously. 'You were in another house when I----' A chuckle was wafted back from the candle. 'Wen 'Oneyman titivated in dress bags! If you'll excuse me, sir, that story's bin worth a fiver to me nigger-minstreling, as Bones. I don't give no names, sir; but you should 'ear the Tommies laugh! No offence, sir, but it do tell awful comic, and they needs perkin' up a bit, pore lads, in them beastly barracks. Better'n the bazaar for 'em any'ow, so that's something due to 'Oneyman, ain't it? Yes, sir!' he went on, still piloting the way towards the gate, 'I left them diggin's soon's I could pay a better lot, for I likes a bit o' 'ome, sir, an' a bit o' furniture. "An' who shall dare to chide me for lovin' an old arm-chair?" That's about it, sir. The "'appy 'omes of Hengland," and Hingia too, sir,' he added, as, after blowing out the end of candle and putting it into his pocket for future use, he paused to say--'Good-night, sir, an' I 'ope you'll find the good lady better.' 'Good-night, Ellison, I hope you'll enjoy yourself.' Jân-Ali-shân gave an odd, half-sheepish laugh. 'An' oughter, sir; she's an awful nice girl, an' not a drop o' black blood in 'er veins--beggin' your pardin, sir, but you know 'ow 'tis.' 'Yes!' said Chris suddenly, 'I know how it is.' He knew better than he had ever known before, when hours afterwards--his blood running like new wine in his veins--he came back from the city and stumbled up to his room. The stairs were certainly, as John Ellison had said, most inconsiderate. Yet one stumble was not due to them, but to John Ellison himself, who was crumpled up, snoring peacefully, at the most difficult turn. 'Hillo!' he said conclusively, after a prolonged stare at Chris, made possible by another resort to wax vestas on the latter's part, 'Is that you, sonny?' And then he wandered off melodiously into the parody-- 'My mother bids me dye my hair the fashionable hue.' When Chris had seen his subordinate safe to bed, he made free with the bit of candle-end for his own use. And by its light he saw his letter to Jack Raymond lying forgotten on the floor in a half-dried pool of ink.