The police now requested my friend to point out the person who had committed the robbery, that they might apprehend him; but this he declined, saying that he was not quite sure of the man, and that he would not like to run the risk of blaming an innocent person; adding, with the quiet smile that seemed to be natural to him, that as the money was recovered, it might be as well to let the matter drop.  The police for some time insisted on my friend pointing out the man; but as he continued firmly to decline interfering further in the matter, they gave it up and left the place.

Every one saw that it was benevolence, however impoperly exerted, that induced my friend to refuse giving up the culprit; and as I had now recovered my money, I felt pretty much in the same disposition—­that was, to allow him to fall into other hands.

I now presented the man who had been employed to rake the area with five shillings, for his trouble.  But how or in what way was I to reward the friendly person to whom I was wholly indebted for the recovery of my pocket-book?  This puzzled me sadly.  Money, at least any such sum as I could spare, I could not offer one who, notwithstanding the little deficiencies in his apparel formerly noticed, had so much the appearance and manner of a gentleman.  I was greatly at a loss.  In the meantime, my friend and I left the exhibition together; he lecturing me the while, although in the most kindly manner, on the danger of going into crowded places with large sums of money about one’s person.

He said he had seen a good deal of the world, had resided long in London, and knew all the tricks of the swell mob.

“It was my knowledge and experience of these gentry,” he added, “that enabled me to manage your little matter so successfully.”  We were at this time passing along Stockwell Street, when, observing a respectable-looking tavern, it struck me that I might, without offence, ask my friend to take a little refreshment,—­a glass of wine or so.

With some hesitation, I proposed it.

He smiled; and as if rather complying with my humour, or as if unwilling to offend me by a refusal, said, “Well, my young friend, I have no objection, although I am not greatly in the habit of going to taverns.  Not there, however,” he added, seeing me moving towards the house on which I had fixed my eye.  “There is a house in the Saltmarket, which, on the rare occasions I do go to a tavern, and that is chiefly for a sight of the papers, I always frequent.  They are decent, respectable people.  So we’ll go there, if you please; that is, if it be quite the same to you.”

I said it was, and that I would cheerfully accompany him wherever he chose.

This point settled, we proceeded to the Saltmarket; when my friend, who, by the way, had now told me that his name was Lancaster, conducted me up a dark, dirty-looking close, and finally into a house of anything but respectable appearance.  The furniture was scanty, and what was of it much dilapidated:  half the backs of half the chairs were broken off, the tables were dirty and covered with stains and the circular marks of drinking measures.  A tattered sofa stood at one end of the apartment, the walls were hung with paltry prints, and the small, old-fashioned, dirty windows hung with dirtier curtains.