Being, as I have already said, penniless, and thus without the means of going anywhere else, I remained in the police office all night; and, in the hope every hour of hearing something of my pocket-book, hung about it all next day till towards the evening, when the sergeant, of whom I have before spoken, came up to me as I was sauntering about the gate, and told me that it was useless my hanging on any longer about the office; that all would be done in my case that could be done; but that, in the meantime, I had better go home, leaving my address; and that if anything occurred, I would instantly be informed of it.  “But I think it but right to tell you, young man,” he added, “that there is scarcely any chance whatever of your ever recovering a sixpence of your money.  I mention this to prevent you indulging in any false hopes.  It is best you should know the worst at once.”

Satisfied that the man spoke truly, and that it was indeed useless my hanging on any longer, I gave him my name and address, and went away, although it was with a heavy heart, and without knowing whither I should go; for to my father’s house I could not think of returning, after what had happened.  I would not have faced him for the world.  In this matter, indeed, I did my father a great injustice; for although a little severe in temper, he was a just and reasonable man, and would most certainly have made all allowances for what had occurred to me.

The determination—­for it now amounted to that—­to which I had come, not to return home, was one, therefore, not warranted by any good reason; it was wholly the result of one of those mad impulses which so frequently lead youthful inexperience into error.

On leaving the vicinity of the police office, I sauntered towards the High Street without knowing or caring whither I went.  Having reached the street just named, I proceeded downwards, still heedless of my way, until I found myself in the Saltmarket, the scene of my late disaster.

Curiosity, or perhaps some vague, absurd idea of seeing something or other, I could not tell what, that might lead to the recovery of my pocket-book, induced me to look about me to see if I could discover the tavern in which I had been robbed.  I was thus employed—­that is, gaping and staring at the windows of the lower flats of the houses on either side of the street, for I did not recollect on which was the house I wanted—­when a smart little man, dressed in a blue surtout, with a black stock about his neck, and carrying a cane in his hand, made up to me with a—­

“Looking for any particular place, my lad?”

Taken unawares, and not choosing to enter into any explanations with a stranger, I simply answered, “No, no.”

“Because if you were,” continued my new acquaintance, “I should have been glad to have helped you.  But I say, my lad—­excuse me,” he went on, now looking earnestly in my face, and perceiving by my eyes that I had been weeping, which was indeed the case—­“you seem to be distressed.  What has happened you?  I don’t ask from any impertinent curiosity, but from sympathy, seeing you are a stranger.”