“I am!  I am!” sobbed the other, smiting his bosom.  “While studying theology, you’d gone to sleep in bed reading the Decameron.  I, in the next room, suddenly smelt a smell of wood burning.  Breaking into your apartment, I saw your candle fallen upon your pillow and your head on fire.  Believing that, if neglected, the flames would spread to some vital part, I seized a water-pitcher and dashed the contents upon you.  Up you instantly sprang, with a theological expression on your lips, and engaged me in violent single combat.  “Madman!” roared I, “is it thus you treat one who has saved your life?” Falling upon the floor, with a black eye, you at once consented to be reconciled; and, from that hour forth, we were both members of the same secret society.”

Leaping forward, the Reverend OCTAVIUS wrung both the black worsted gloves of Mr. Bentham, and introduced the latter to the old lawyer and his ward.

“He did indeed save all but my head from the conflagration, and extinguished that, even, before it was much charred,” cried the grateful Ritualist, with marked emotion.—­“But, Jeremy, why this aspect of depression?”

“OCTAVIUS, old friend,” said Bentham, his hollow voice quivering, “let no man boast himself upon the gaiety of his youth, and fondly dream—­poor self-deceiver!—­that his maturity may be one of revelry.  You know what I once was.  Now I am conducting a first-class American Comic Paper.”

Commiseration, earnest and unaffected, appeared upon every countenance, and Mr. Dibble was the first to break the ensuing deep silence.

“If I am not mistaken, then,” observed the good lawyer, quietly, “the scene of your daily loss of spirits is in the same building with our young friend, Mr. Pendragon, whom you may know.”

“I do know him, sir; and that his sister has lately come unto him.  His room, by means of outside shutters, was once a refuge to me from the Man”—­Here Mr. BENTHAM’S face flamed with inconceivable hatred—­“who came to tell me just how an American first-class Comic Paper should be conducted.”

“At what time does your rush of subscribers cease?”

“As soon as I begin to charge anything for my paper.”

“And the newsmen, who take it by the week,—­what is their usual time for swarming in your office?”

“On the day appointed for the return of unsold copies.”

“Then I have an idea,” said Mr. Dibble.  “It appears to me, Mr. Bentham, that your office, besides being so near Mr. PENDRAGON’S quarters, furnishes all the conditions for a perfectly private confidential interview between this young lady here, and her friend, Miss pendragon.  Mr. Simpson, if you approve, be kind enough to acquaint Mr. Bentham with Miss POTTS’S history, without mentioning names; and explain to him, also, why the ladies’ interview should take place in a spot whither that singular young man, Mr. Bumstead, would not be likely to prowl, if in town, in his inspection of umbrellas.”