was content to let the ‘Bishop’ have his way and say in regard to the conduct of the business.  His reverence bought the cigars and liquors.  Dick could hardly be called a sleeping partner, for he took the night watch, but the ‘Bishop’ did most of the work, and kept the books.  Before two years had passed a capital restaurant was added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chops might be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price.  Dick never knew it, but the ‘Bishop’ wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp and begged her to send no more cheques.  He told his kind auntie very modestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped one day to thank her in person for all she had done for him.

Towards the close of the third year the ‘Bishop’ told Dick that it would be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a small hotel then offered for sale.  Dick told his old friend to go ahead.  His reverence supplied Dick’s share of the purchase-money, and the saloon knew them no more.  But the hotel, under the ‘Bishop’s’ management, proved a tiny gold mine.

All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helped to play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory.  He feared that Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; for in the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, of The Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor ‘Bishop’ read with quickening pulses, and then showed to Dick.

“My very dear Sir” (it began), “a curious change in my fortunes enables me to carry out a long-cherished plan.  I purpose, D.V., to pay a pilgrimage to my poor son’s grave, and shall start for California immediately.  Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a couple of days at the rectory.  It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meet one who was kind to my dear lad.

“I will write to you again from San Francisco.

“Very gratefully yours,

“George Carteret.”

If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the ‘Bishop’ would have manifested far less consternation.  He raved incoherently for nearly ten minutes, while Dick sat silent and nervous beneath a storm of remorse.

“I’ll meet your father in San Francisco,” said the unhappy Crisp, “and make a clean breast of it.”  “That spells ruin,” said Dick coldly.  “The governor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper.  He would make this place too hot for you and too hot for me.  I’ve a voice in this matter, and for once,” he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, “I propose to be heard.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“If necessary I’ll resurrect myself.  I’ll play the hand alone.  You’ve no more tact than a hippopotamus.  And I’ll meet the governor.  Don’t stare.  Do you think he’ll know me?  Not much!  I left Dorset a smooth-faced boy; to-day I’m bearded like the pard.  My voice, my figure, the colour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable.  It may be necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan’t bring him down here.  Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide.”