Our line of defense was, of course, that the compound had been improperly used.  For the rest, we relied with well-placed confidence on the want of evidence against us.  Mr. Pickup wisely closed his shop for a while, and went off to the Continent to ransack the foreign galleries.  I received my five and twenty pounds, rubbed out the beginning of my second Rembrandt, closed the back door of the workshop behind me, and there was another scene of my life at an end.  I had but one circumstance to regret—­and I did regret it bitterly.  I was still as ignorant as ever of the young lady’s name and address.

My first visit was to the studio of my excellent artist-friend, whom I have already presented to the reader under the sympathetic name of “Dick.”  He greeted me with a letter in his hand.  It was addressed to me—­it had been left at the studio a few days since; and (marvel of all marvels!) the handwriting was Mr. Batterbury’s.  Had this philanthropic man not done befriending me even yet?  Were there any present or prospective advantages to be got out of him still?  Read his letter, and judge.

“Sir—­Although you have forfeited by your ungentlemanly conduct toward myself, and your heartlessly mischievous reception of my dear wife, all claim upon the forbearance of the most forbearing of your relatives, I am disposed, from motives of regard for the tranquillity of Mrs. Batterbury’s family, and of sheer good-nature so far as I am myself concerned, to afford you one more chance of retrieving your position by leading a respectable life.  The situation I am enabled to offer you is that of secretary to a new Literary and Scientific Institution, about to be opened in the town of Duskydale, near which neighborhood I possess, as you must be aware, some landed property.  The office has been placed at my disposal, as vice-president of the new Institution.  The salary is fifty pounds a year, with apartments on the attic-floor of the building.  The duties are various, and will be explained to you by the local committee, if you choose to present yourself to them with the inclosed letter of introduction.  After the unscrupulous manner in which you have imposed on my liberality by deceiving me into giving you fifty pounds for an audacious caricature of myself, which it is impossible to hang up in any room of the house, I think this instance of my forgiving disposition still to befriend you, after all that has happened, ought to appeal to any better feelings that you may still have left, and revive the long dormant emotions of repentance and self-reproach, when you think on your obedient servant,

“Daniel Batterbury.”

Bless me!  What A long-winded style, and what a fuss about fifty pounds a year, and a bed in an attic!  These were naturally the first emotions which Mr. Batterbury’s letter produced in me.  What was his real motive for writing it?  I hope nobody will do me so great an injustice as to suppose that I hesitated for one instant about the way of finding that out.  Of course I started off directly to inquire if Lady Malkinshaw had had another narrow escape of dying before me.