We reached Liverpool one forenoon, the rain falling thickly and insidiously on the filthy town.  I had no plans, beyond a sensible unwillingness to let my rascal escape; and I ended by going to the same inn with him, dining with him, walking with him in the wet streets, and hearing with him in a penny gaff that venerable piece, The Ticket-of-Leave Man.  It was one of his first visits to a theatre, against which places of entertainment he had a strong prejudice; and his innocent, pompous talk, innocent old quotations, and innocent reverence for the character of Hawkshaw delighted me beyond relief.  In charity to myself, I dwell upon and perhaps exaggerate my pleasures.  I have need of all conceivable excuses, when I confess that I went to bed without one word upon the matter of Carthew, but not without having covenanted with my rascal for a visit to Chester the next day.  At Chester we did the Cathedral, walked on the walls, discussed Shakespeare and the musical glasses—­and made a fresh engagement for the morrow.  I do not know, and I am glad to have forgotten, how long these travels were continued.  We visited at least, by singular zigzags, Stratford, Warwick, Coventry, Gloucester, Bristol, Bath, and Wells.  At each stage we spoke dutifully of the scene and its associations; I sketched, the Shyster spouted poetry and copied epitaphs.  Who could doubt we were the usual Americans, travelling with a design of self-improvement?  Who was to guess that one was a blackmailer, trembling to approach the scene of action—­the other a helpless, amateur detective, waiting on events?

It is unnecessary to remark that none occurred, or none the least suitable with my design of protecting Carthew.  Two trifles, indeed, completed though they scarcely changed my conception of the Shyster.  The first was observed in Gloucester, where we spent Sunday, and I proposed we should hear service in the cathedral.  To my surprise, the creature had an ISM of his own, to which he was loyal; and he left me to go alone to the cathedral—­or perhaps not to go at all—­and stole off down a deserted alley to some Bethel or Ebenezer of the proper shade.  When we met again at lunch, I rallied him, and he grew restive.

“You need employ no circumlocutions with me, Mr. Dodd,” he said suddenly.  “You regard my behaviour from an unfavourable point of view:  you regard me, I much fear, as hypocritical.”

I was somewhat confused by the attack.  “You know what I think of your trade,” I replied, lamely and coarsely.

“Excuse me, if I seem to press the subject,” he continued, “but if you think my life erroneous, would you have me neglect the means of grace?  Because you consider me in the wrong on one point, would you have me place myself on the wrong in all?  Surely, sir, the church is for the sinner.”

“Did you ask a blessing on your present enterprise?” I sneered.

He had a bad attack of St. Vitus, his face was changed, and his eyes flashed.  “I will tell you what I did!” he cried.  “I prayed for an unfortunate man and a wretched woman whom he tries to support.”