Naturally, with such bitter matter for reflection, my equanimity was liable to serious disturbance what time the sharp edge of this haunting sense of a life's bankruptcy pricked my all-too-sensitive skin. At such periods long-drawn fits of depression would invade me. Though at first these would dissolve and would often leave a marked flow of gaiety and hopefulness behind them, yet such attacks grew stronger and more frequent, whilst the subsequent recovery was less ecstatic in its nature. It was during one of these temporary obsessions of brooding care that I encountered the one and only adventure of my life, the adventure indeed that, in one aspect, terminated it, as I shall presently relate. For I have only written thus much concerning my interior state of mind and my physical health to impress on the reader that, apparent failure as I was and void of all worldly success, yet I still possessed the clear inner consciousness of mental powers that far exceeded those of all my more fortunate acquaintances, and were perhaps equalled amongst very few contemporary persons whatsoever. My call to action came at last; the master hand at the eleventh hour put the rusty machinery of my unique mind in motion; and I have answered to that call, and am now employing for a worthy purpose those superior talents that, not altogether by reason of my own laches, had so long lain idle. * * * * * One November evening in the year 19--, whilst under the shadow of one of my recurring moods of melancholy, I made my way to the Café Royale in Regent Street, where I sat down and ordered a glass of absinthe. And here I may as well state that I am no drunkard, and that I have never sought to dispel my fits of depression by the aid of the wine-cup. Occasionally, however, I used to drink a glass of absinthe, as an excuse for visiting this foreign tavern, this latter-day Petty France in London, whose alien quality always tended to reduce my misery, for I found relaxation in the gruff Continental voices of the guests, in the sight and scent of the foreign liquors, in the garish Parisian decorations of the long low room, and in the unceasing chink of the dominoes on the marble-topped tables. I had already poured the ice-cold water upon the thin tablet of sugar reposing on the silver sifter that I had placed across the goblet, and was watching the clouded liquor below assume the yellow and green tints of the peridot, when I noticed a stranger enter the doorway, glance quickly round at the noisy crowd assembled, and then seat himself deliberately in the vacant chair opposite to me. With a languid interest I observed the new-comer, trying to recall his face, which somehow seemed vaguely familiar to me. As this personage is to figure presently as my liberator, my mentor, my particular _deus ex machinâ_, I may as well describe him here to the best of my ability. He was short, and a little inclined to stoutness;