“And I don’t know that, under the circumstances, you could do a better thing than you have done,” continued the Gospeler.  “Mr. Bumstead, himself, explains your flight upon the supposition that you were possibly engaged with myself, my mother, Mr. Dibble, and the PENDRAGONS, in killing poor Mr. DROOD.”

“Oh, oughtn’t he to be ashamed of himself, when he knows that I never did kill any absurd creature!” cried the Flowerpot, in earnest deprecation.  “And just think of darling Magnolia, too, with her poor, ridiculous brother!  You’re a lawyer, Mr. Dibble and I should think you could get them a habeas corpus, or a divorce, or some other perfectly absurd thing about courts, that would make the judges tell the juries to bring them in Not Guilty.”

Fixing upon the lovely young reasoner a look expressive of his affectionate wonder at her inspired perception of legal possibilities, the old lawyer said, that the first thing in order was a meeting between herself and Miss pendragon; which, as it could scarcely take place (all things considered,) with propriety in the private room of that lady’s brother, nor without publicity in his own office, or in a hotel, he hardly knew how to bring about.

And here we have an example of that difference between novels and real life which has been illustrated more than once before in this conscientious American Adaptation of what all our profoundly critical native journals pronounce the “most elaborately artistic work” of the grandest of English novelists.  In an equivalent situation of real life, Mr. DIBBLE’S quandary would not have been easily relieved; but, by the magic of artistic fiction, the particular kind of extemporized character absolutely necessary to help him and the novel continuously along was at that moment coming up the stairs of the hotel.[2]

At the critical instant, a servant knocked, to say, that there was a gentleman below, “with a face as long me arrum, sir, who axed me was there a man here av the name av Simpson, Miss?”

“It is John—­it is Mr. Bumstead!” shrieked Flora, hastening involuntarily towards a mirror,—­“and just see how my dress is wrinkled!”

“My name is Bentham—­Jeremy Bentham,” said a deep voice in the doorway; and there entered a gloomy figure, with smoky, light hair, a curiously long countenance, and black worsted gloves.  “Simpson!—­old OCTAVIUS!—­did you never, never see me before?”

“If I am not greatly mistaken,” returned the Gospeler, sternly.  “I saw you standing in the bar-room of the hotel, just now, as we came up.”

“Yes,” sighed the stranger, “I was there—­waiting for a Western friend—­when you passed in.  And has sorrow, then, so changed me, that you do not know me?  Alas! alack! woe’s me!”

“Bentham, you say?” cried the Ritualistic clergyman, with a start, and sudden change of countenance.  “Surely you’re not the rollicking fellow-student who saved my life at Yale?”