Mr. Belcher was interrupted in his reflections and his soliloquy by the entrance of a servant, with the information that there was a man at the door who wished to see him.

“Show him up.”

The servant hesitated, and finally said:  “He doesn’t smell very well, sir.”

“What does he smell of?” inquired Mr. Belcher, laughing.

“Rum, sir, and several things.”

“Send him away, then.”

“I tried to, sir, but he says he knows you, and wants to see you on particular business.”

“Take him into the basement, and tell him I’ll be down soon.”

Mr. Belcher exhausted his cigar, tossed the stump into the fire, and, muttering to himself, “Who the devil!” went down to meet his caller.

As he entered a sort of lobby in the basement that was used as a servants’ parlor, his visitor rose, and stood with great shame-facedness before him.  He did not extend his hand, but stood still, in his seedy clothes and his coat buttoned to his chin, to hide his lack of a shirt.  The blue look of the cold street had changed to a hot purple under the influence of a softer atmosphere; and over all stood the wreck of a good face, and a head still grand in its outline.

“Well, you look as if you were waiting to be damned,” said Mr. Belcher, roughly.

“I am, sir,” responded the man solemnly.

“Very well; consider the business done, so far as I am concerned, and clear out.”

“I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher.”

“I believe you; and you’ll excuse me if I say that your appearance corroborates your statement.”

“And you don’t recognize me?  Is it possible?” And the maudlin tears came into the man’s rheumy eyes and rolled down his cheeks.  “You knew me in better days, sir;” and his voice trembled with weak emotion.

“No; I never saw you before.  That game won’t work, and now be off.”

“And you don’t remember Yates?—­Sam Yates—­and the happy days we spent together in childhood?” And the man wept again, and wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve.

“Do you pretend to say that you are Sam Yates, the lawyer?”

“The same, at your service.”

“What brought you to this?”

“Drink, and bad company, sir.”

“And you want money?”

“Yes!” exclaimed the man, with a hiss as fierce as if he were a serpent.

“Do you want to earn money?”

“Anything to get it.”

“Anything to get drink, I suppose.  You said ‘anything.’  Did you mean that?”

The man knew Robert Belcher, and he knew that the last question had a great deal more in it than would appear to the ordinary listener.

“Lift me out of the gutter,” said he, “and keep me out, and—­command me.”

“I have a little business on hand,” said Mr. Belcher, “that you can do, provided you will let your drink alone—­a business that I am willing to pay for.  Do you remember a man by the name of Benedict—­a shiftless, ingenious dog, who once lived in Sevenoaks?”