“So should I, old girl,” said Mr. Dodson. “I don’t recognize J. D. in this affair at all. The fact is, J. D. never has recognized himself in his dealings with that poor lunatic. But there has come to be something about that chap that is more to me than my own flesh and blood. If it isn’t love I don’t know what it is; yet why it should be love I don’t know. As you know, old girl, I don’t believe much in religion as a general thing, but it has seemed to me lately that that chap was just a saint in disguise. And now they have taken him from me--put him away in gaol--to hard labour--and he deserves it too--and--and, old girl, it has kind of knocked the bottom out of my little world altogether--and--and I feel that I shall never be able to believe in anything again.” “Steady, old boy,” said Chrissie with an ample yet robust sympathy. “I don’t like to see you let go.” “I don’t like it either,” said the philosopher whitely. “But I feel just now that I must either let out a little or go mad. One thing is dead sure; I mustn’t go back to the office at present. If I do I am certain to murder Octavius.” “Jimmy,” said Chrissie, with matronly reserve from behind the buffet, “if you like to bring that ring back again to-morrow I’ll wear it.” “You give me something that will put me to sleep,” said the philosopher hoarsely and with wild eyes. “Anything--I don’t care what--as long as it does it soon.” XXXVII One misty but pleasant morning of the early autumn, a four-wheeled cab was drawn up against the kerb immediately opposite the portals of a London penitentiary. A wizened and undersized young man with black hair, a short bristling moustache, and his hands in his pockets, stood with his back to this vehicle. Upon his not particularly agreeable countenance was a curious air of expectancy. Ever and anon the young man might have been seen to take out his watch. By the manner in which he regarded it, it was to be surmised that he was growing impatient. He began to pace up and down the pavement in front of the prison. Already he had been waiting more than an hour. It began to seem that he whom he awaited would never appear. At last there stepped through the sombre portals of the gaol an extremely slight figure, rather above than below the middle height. It was that of a young man. His hands were remarkably slender and delicate; his eyes were large and deep yet extraordinarily luminous; his hair was shaved close to his head. The tardy beams of the sun which were beginning to creep over the great city declared his gaunt face to be suffused by a somewhat curious pallor. In the centre of the right cheek was a slight yet almost hideous natural disfigurement.