“Who’s that spoke just then?” cries the Ritualistic organist.

The answer comes like the note of a trumpet:—­

“Edwin DROOD!”

At the same instant a great glare of light breaks upon the scene from a bonfire of tar-barrels, ignited at the higher end of the cross-road by young Smalley; and, to the mingled bewilderment and exasperation of Mr. Bumstead, the radiance reveals, as in noonday, Mr. Schenck and his long-lost nephew standing before him; and, coming towards them in festive procession from Gospeler’s Gulch.  Montgomery pendragon with Flora on his arm, the Reverend OCTAVIUS Simpson escorting Magnolia, Mr. Dibble guarding Mrs. Simpson, Mr. CLEW’S arm in arm with John McLAUGHLIN.  Father Dean and Judge Sweeney, Miss CAROWTHERS, and the SMYTHES.

“Trying to hang yourselves!” exclaims Mr. Dibble, as the throng gathers curiously around the two gentlemen of the rope.

“And my old friend Bentham, too!” cries the Gospeler.

“How perfectly ridiculous!” warbles Flora.

Staring majestically from one face to the other, and from thence towards the illuminating bonfire, Mr. Bumstead, quite unconscious of the picturesque effect of the towel on his head, deliberately draws an antique black bottle from his pocket, moistens his lips therewith, passes it to the Comic Paper man, and eats a clove.

“What is the meaning of this general intoxication?” he then asks quite severely.  “Why does this mass-meeting, greatly under the influence of inferior liquor as it plainly is, intrude thus upon the last hours of a Ritualistic gentleman and a humorous publisher?”

“Because, Uncle Jack,” returns Edwin DROOD, holding his hands curiously behind him as he speaks, “this is a night of general rejoicing Bumsteadville, in honor of my reappearance; and, directed by your landlord, Mr. Smythe, we have come out to make you join in our cheer.  We are all heartily sorry for the great anguish you have endured in consequence of my unexplained absence.  Let me tell you ow it was, as I have already told all our friends here.  You know where you placed me while you were in your clove-trance, and I was o unbecomingly asleep, on Christmas night.  Well, I was discovered there, in less than three hours thereafter, by John MCLAUGHLIN, who carried me to his own house, and there managed to awaken me.  Recovering my senses, I was disgusted with myself, ashamed of what had happened, and anxious to leave Bumsteadville.  I swore ‘Old Mortarity’ to secrecy—­”

“—­Which I have observed,” explains MCLAUGHLIN, nodding.

“—­And started immediately for Egypt, in Illinois,” continues Mr. DROOD.  “There I went into railroading; am engaged to a nice little girl there; and came back two days ago to explain myself all around, returning here, I saw John MCLAUGHLIN first, who told me that a certain Mr. CLEWS was here to unravel the Mystery about me, and persuaded me to let Mr. CLEWS work you into another visit to the cellar the Pauper Burial Ground, and there appear to you as my own ghost, before finally revealing myself as I now do.”