Upon their arrival at Peckham, the young man recalled Mr. Dodson’s injunctions and very timorously advanced the suggestion that they should take a hansom to Midlothian Avenue. Mr. Davis received the suggestion with loud-voiced derision. “Not likely,” said that gentleman. “I am not a bloated plutocrat. You should have sported a pair of goloshes the same as me.” William Jordan, Junior, was confronted accordingly with the extreme course of having to take a hansom for himself, and of inviting Mr. Davis to accept a seat therein. Mr. Davis’s tone of unmistakable rebuff, however, had quelled him so effectually that he could not find the courage to do either of these things. Accordingly he was obliged to pick his way with great trepidation along divers unclean thoroughfares to the frank amusement of his companion, who, in bringing to his notice innumerable pools of water and stretches of mud upon the route, abjured him earnestly “to be careful of his ‘pumps.’” Upon the stroke of half-past eight Mr. Davis executed an ostentatious tattoo upon the knocker of No. 8, Gladstone Villas, which was situate amid two narrow rows of ill-lighted, meagre, lower middle class respectability. They were received with great cordiality by Mr. Dodson himself, who in immaculate evening attire appeared to considerable advantage. “Hullo, Luney, old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, “so here we are! Give me your hat and coat and then come in here, and I’ll introduce you to Coxey and John Dobbs.” With a dull terror in his soul Mr. William Jordan, Junior, resigned himself implicitly into the care of his mentor, so that almost without being aware of how he came there, he found himself in an exceedingly small room in the presence of several other immaculately attired gentlemen; and these, although entire strangers to him, were of an extremely critical cast of countenance. He could understand nothing of what was taking place, although presently he awoke to the fact that these gentlemen were grasping him by the hand. “You’ll have a finger before we go up-stairs to the ladies?” said Mr. Dodson, pouring a coloured liquid into a tumbler, to which he added an even more mysterious liquid that went off with a hiss. “Say when.” “Oh n-n-n-no, please!” gasped Mr. William Jordan; for a bitter recollection still abided within him of his misadventure at the railway station buffet. Hearing this note of somewhat exaggerated appeal the other gentlemen could hardly repress a guffaw, particularly when incited thereto by a knowing wink from Mr. Davis. “Never mind them, Luney old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, who as he spoke smiled archly at his guests. “They don’t know any better. They are not accustomed to mix with men of intellect on equal terms.” “That is the truest word you’ve spoken this week, Jim Dodson,” said Mr. John Dobbs of the Alcazar Theatre, a heavy and sombre young man with very long and thick black hair and a voice that seemed to proceed from his boots.