‘Cantankerous old party, eh?’ suggested Wickham.

‘Not in the least,’ cried the other; ’only a man with a solid talent for being a bore; rather cheery I dare say, on a desert island, but on a railway journey insupportable.  You should hear him on Tonti, the ass that started tontines.  He’s incredible on Tonti.’

‘By Jove!’ cried Wickham, ’then you’re one of these Finsbury tontine fellows.  I hadn’t a guess of that.’

‘Ah!’ said the other, ’do you know that old boy in the carriage is worth a hundred thousand pounds to me?  There he was asleep, and nobody there but you!  But I spared him, because I’m a Conservative in politics.’

Mr Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and fro like a gentlemanly butterfly.

‘By Jingo!’ he cried, ’here’s something for you!  “M.  Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury, London.”  M. stands for Michael, you sly dog; you keep two establishments, do you?’

‘O, that’s Morris,’ responded Michael from the other end of the van, where he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks.  ’He’s a little cousin of mine.  I like him myself, because he’s afraid of me.  He’s one of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, and has a collection of some kind—­birds’ eggs or something that’s supposed to be curious.  I bet it’s nothing to my clients!’

‘What a lark it would be to play billy with the labels!’ chuckled Mr Wickham.  ’By George, here’s a tack-hammer!  We might send all these things skipping about the premises like what’s-his-name!’

At this moment, the guard, surprised by the sound of voices, opened the door of his little cabin.

‘You had best step in here, gentlemen,’ said he, when he had heard their story.

‘Won’t you come, Wickham?’ asked Michael.

‘Catch me—­I want to travel in a van,’ replied the youth.

And so the door of communication was closed; and for the rest of the run Mr Wickham was left alone over his diversions on the one side, and on the other Michael and the guard were closeted together in familiar talk.

‘I can get you a compartment here, sir,’ observed the official, as the train began to slacken speed before Bishopstoke station.  ’You had best get out at my door, and I can bring your friend.’

Mr Wickham, whom we left (as the reader has shrewdly suspected) beginning to ‘play billy’ with the labels in the van, was a young gentleman of much wealth, a pleasing but sandy exterior, and a highly vacant mind.  Not many months before, he had contrived to get himself blackmailed by the family of a Wallachian Hospodar, resident for political reasons in the gay city of Paris.  A common friend (to whom he had confided his distress) recommended him to Michael; and the lawyer was no sooner in possession of the facts than he instantly assumed the offensive, fell on the flank of the Wallachian forces, and, in the inside of three days, had the satisfaction to behold