“One thing, however, I never knew—­the name of that bad man.  Again and again, as I grew older, I demanded to know, but my mother always withheld it from me, with a gentle reminder that vengeance was for a greater hand than mine.

“I was seventeen years of age when my mother died.  I believe that nothing but her strong attachment to myself and her desire to see me safely started in life kept her alive so long.  Then I found that through all those years of narrowed means she had contrived to scrape and save a little money—­sufficient, as it afterward proved, to see me through the examinations for entrance to my profession, with the generous assistance of my father’s old legal advisers, who gave me my articles, and who have all along treated me with extreme kindness.

“For most of the succeeding years my life does not concern the matter in hand.  I was a lawyer’s clerk in my benefactors’ service, and afterward a qualified man among their assistants.  All through the firm were careful, in pursuance of my poor mother’s wishes, that I should not learn the name or whereabouts of the man who had wrecked her life and my father’s.  I first met the man himself at the Clifton Club, where I had gone with an acquaintance who was a member.  It was not till afterward that I understood his curious awkwardness on that occasion.  A week later I called (as I had frequently done) at the building in which your office is situated, on business with a solicitor who has an office on the floor above your own.  On the stairs I almost ran against Mr. Foggatt.  He started and turned pale, exhibiting signs of alarm that I could not understand, and asked me if I wished to see him.

“‘No,’ I replied, ’I didn’t know you lived here.  I am after somebody else just now.  Aren’t you well?’

“He looked at me rather doubtfully, and said he was not very well.

“I met him twice or thrice after that, and on each occasion his manner grew more friendly, in a servile, flattering, and mean sort of way—­a thing unpleasant enough in anybody, but doubly so in the intercourse of a man with another young enough to be his own son.  Still, of course, I treated the man civilly enough.  On one occasion he asked me into his rooms to look at a rather fine picture he had lately bought, and observed casually, lifting a large revolver from the mantel-piece: 

“’You see, I am prepared for any unwelcome visitors to my little den!  He!  He!’ Conceiving him, of course, to refer to burglars, I could not help wondering at the forced and hollow character of his laugh.  As we went down the stairs he said:  ’I think we know one another pretty well now, Mr. Mason, eh?  And if I could do anything to advance your professional prospects, I should be glad of the chance, of course.  I understand the struggles of a young professional man—­he! he!’ It was the forced laugh again, and the man spoke nervously.  ‘I think,’ he added, ’that if you will drop in to-morrow evening, perhaps I may have a little proposal to make.  Will you?’