Mallow became one of the props of this journal. When it failed, by reason of its too lofty aims, he went to India to write letters about the incomprehensible East, for a newspaper. A while after he returned, and published a novel which was much condemned and widely circulated. At the present time, having netted a few hundreds out of the book, he was going down to Casterwell to stay with Aldean, and to renew his friendship with Olive Bellairs, whom he loved ardently, though--knowing full well that she was engaged to a certain Mr. Carson--hopelessly, in his own peculiar, wrong-headed way. Aldean, who was now twenty-four, and as good-naturedly stupid as ever, was in truth more akin to Goliath than to David. He was a gigantic son of Anak, considerably over six feet in height, and as wide as a church door. He was sparing of his words, and he usually assented to whatever was said to him as the safest way out of an argument. But in spite of his lack of conversation, and the rareness with which he gave expression to such ideas as he possessed, he had a fund of shrewd common sense, which, in his position, was worth far more to him than genius would have been. It was with all his heart and soul that he admired Mallow, and the very _naiveté_ with which he would express his admiration endeared him to the young Irishman. Habitually Mallow's tongue was razor-like in its acerbity, but Aldean--though he took full advantage of the friendship between them, and spoke pretty plainly when he judged his lordship deserved correction--he invariably spared where he would have spared none else. They had indeed established their friendship on a very durable basis, by the extremely simple process of shutting their eyes to one another's faults and opening them very wide to one another's virtues. The young Irishman had his brilliant flashes of silence. It was on these occasions that he found Aldean so agreeable a companion--in fact, the boy was as a pet dog to Mallow; agreeable company, and not given to criticism. "Aldean!" "Eh yes, what?" asked his lordship, looking up from _Ally Sloper_. "Have you read the account of this Athelstane Place murder?" "Yes--fellow killed with a knitting-needle, isn't it?" "Yes, thrust into the heart--devilish queer case. The _Morning Planet_ seems to think the unfortunate beggar came from India." "Who told the 'M.P.' so?" "No one, apparently; it is a theory based on the fact that the man's clothes smelled of sandal-wood." "Bosh! there's plenty of sandal-wood in England." "No doubt; but Englishmen are not by way of scenting their clothes with it. I shouldn't be surprised to find that the _Planet_ was right. At all events it's some sort of clue." Aldean shook his head. "I thought you said it was a theory?" "So it is; but a theory may develop into a clue," retorted Mallow, lighting another cigarette. "If only I had the time, there is nothing I would like better than to follow up a case like this." "Well, surely you have the time?"