“He is a disreputable lawyer, recently disbarred,” said I.  “I wish I had seen you in time.  I trust you told him nothing about Carthew?”

He flushed to his ears.  “I’m awfully sorry,” he said.  “He seemed civil, and I wanted to get rid of him.  It was only the address he asked.”

“And you gave it?” I cried.

“I’m really awfully sorry,” said Sebright.  “I’m afraid I did.”

“God forgive you!” was my only comment, and I turned my back upon the blunderer.

The fat was in the fire now:  Bellairs had the address, and I was the more deceived or Carthew would have news of him.  So strong was this impression, and so painful, that the next morning I had the curiosity to pay the lawyer’s den a visit.  An old woman was scrubbing the stair, and the board was down.

“Lawyer Bellairs?” said the old woman.  “Gone East this morning.  There’s Lawyer Dean next block up.”

I did not trouble Lawyer Dean, but walked slowly back to my hotel, ruminating as I went.  The image of the old woman washing that desecrated stair had struck my fancy; it seemed that all the water-supply of the city and all the soap in the State would scarce suffice to cleanse it, it had been so long a clearing-house of dingy secrets and a factory of sordid fraud.  And now the corner was untenanted; some judge, like a careful housewife, had knocked down the web, and the bloated spider was scuttling elsewhere after new victims.  I had of late (as I have said) insensibly taken sides with Carthew; now when his enemy was at his heels, my interest grew more warm; and I began to wonder if I could not help.  The drama of the Flying Scud was entering on a new phase.  It had been singular from the first:  it promised an extraordinary conclusion; and I, who had paid so much to learn the beginning, might pay a little more and see the end.  I lingered in San Francisco, indemnifying myself after the hardships of the cruise, spending money, regretting it, continually promising departure for the morrow.  Why not go indeed, and keep a watch upon Bellairs?  If I missed him, there was no harm done, I was the nearer Paris.  If I found and kept his trail, it was hard if I could not put some stick in his machinery, and at the worst I could promise myself interesting scenes and revelations.

In such a mixed humour, I made up what it pleases me to call my mind, and once more involved myself in the story of Carthew and the Flying Scud.  The same night I wrote a letter of farewell to Jim, and one of anxious warning to Dr. Urquart begging him to set Carthew on his guard; the morrow saw me in the ferry-boat; and ten days later, I was walking the hurricane deck on the City of Denver.  By that time my mind was pretty much made down again, its natural condition:  I told myself that I was bound for Paris or Fontainebleau to resume the study of the arts; and I thought no more of Carthew or Bellairs, or only to smile at my own fondness.  The one I could not serve, even if I wanted; the other I had no means of finding, even if I could have at all influenced him after he was found.