"Oh, I thought you did not know that lady?" "Nor do I--in Casterwell. In Soho it is quite another matter." They were in a dingy, mean room of the upper story of No. 49, Poplar Street, Soho--a neighbourhood notorious for Anarchists--and pickles. Any longings after wealth were ruthlessly repressed here. A deal table, a few chairs, a bookcase filled with revolutionary literature, and fiery pamphlets in every European tongue, and a ragged chintz-covered sofa, with a hard and suspiciously round-looking pillow, was all the room contained by way of luxury. The dirty floor boasted no carpet or covering of any kind, and the iron shutters, by which the solitary window was protected, and a brace of revolvers reposing on the mantelshelf, added in no way to the cosiness of the apartment. In all the force of blacklead and whitewash the walls displayed fierce denunciations of many things, more particularly of the various forms of law and order. Dust was over everything, and in the corners cobwebs abounded. The triumph of Anarchy was here again the apotheosis of the unwashed--the worship of the _sansculottes_. Mallow contrasted strangely with these surroundings. Near him lounged the doctor, sleek and pale, and still clothed in his invariable black. But this was not the hearty, would-be-genial doctor of Casterwell, but a savage, angry, vicious, Anarchical doctor, drunk with copious inhalations of the atmosphere around him--the atmosphere of organized disorder, of crime and ruffianism and bribery. This was the real Drabble. He was at home here. No one would have known him, save perhaps his wife. Mallow, as he looked at him, found himself pitying her. The sheer abandonment of the man revolted him. "Well, and how are the turtle-doves getting on?" he asked vulgarly. "If you are speaking of Mr. and Mrs. Carson," replied Mallow, "they have parted, I believe, and Carson has gone off to Italy." "H'm," growled Drabble. "As a matter of fact Semberry told me so. The maid Clara has joined him, I hear." "It is highly probable. Carson is a blackguard." "He is worse than that, Mallow; he is a thief. I understand he has gone off with his wife's money." Now it was quite clear to Mallow, that for "wife's money" he might with safety substitute "our share of the plunder;" but for the present he must keep that to himself. It did not do to be foolhardy, especially at No. 49, Poplar Street. So he gave the doctor no hint. "Perhaps the word 'thief' is a trifle strong, doctor," was all he said. "After all, it is more a question of conscience--or, rather, lack of it--than anything else. No man with a spark of decency would have taken advantage of a position which gave him full possession of his wife's money, by virtue of the mere fact of her being his wife. Blackguard--my word--is I think the more applicable." "He is a fool," said Drabble, fiercely; "but let him take care. I am not to be trifled with. I wonder what Trall will say to his niece bolting with Carson?"