“You are one of those who, the richer they become, the less harm they do.  Many Englishmen are of this disposition.  When they are poor they are jackals, hyenas, wolves, and man-eating tigers; when they are rich they are benevolent and charitable, and show mercy unto the wretched and the poor.  So that, in their case, the words of the Wise Man are naught, when he says that the earth is barren of good things where she hoardeth treasure; and that where gold is in her bowels no herb groweth.  Pray, Mr. Chalker, pray earnestly for gold in order that you may become virtuous.”

Mr. Chalker grinned, but looked uncomfortable.

“I will, mister,” he said, “I will pray with all my might.”

Nevertheless, he remained for the space of the whole morning in uneasiness.  The words of the Philosopher troubled him.  I do not go so far as to say that his mind went back to the days when he was young and innocent, because he was still young, and he never had been innocent; nor do I say that a tear rose to his eyes and trickled down his cheek, because nothing brought tears into his eyes except a speck of dust; or that he resolved to confine himself for the future to legitimate lawyer’s work, because he would then have starved.  I only say that he felt uncomfortable and humiliated, and chiefly so because an old man with white hair and a brown skin—­hang it! a common nigger—­had been able to bring discord into the sweet harmony of his thoughts.

Lala Roy then betook himself to Joe’s former lodgings, and asked for that gentleman’s present address.

The landlady professed to know nothing.

“You do know, however,” he persisted, reading knowledge in her eyes.

“Is it trouble you mean for him?” asked the woman, “and him such a fine, well-set-up young man, too!  Is it trouble?  Oh, dear, I always thought he got his money on the cross.  Look here.  I ain’t going to round on him, though he has gone away and left a comfortable room.  So there!  And you may go.”

Lala Roy opened his hand.  There were at least five golden sovereigns glorifying his dingy palm.

“Can gold,” the moralist asked, “ever increase the virtue of man?  Woman, how much?”

“Is it trouble?” she repeated, looking greedily at the money.  “Will the young man get copped?”

Lala understood no London slang.  But he showed his hand again.

“How much?  Who so is covetous let him know that his heart is poor.  How much?”

“Poor young man!  I’ll take them all, please, sir.  What’s he done?”

“Where does he live?”

“I know where he lives,” she said, “because our Bill rode away with him at the back of his cab, and saw where he got out.  He’s married now, and his wife sings at the music-hall, and he lives on her earnings.  Quite the gentleman he is now, and smokes cigars all day long.  There’s his address, and thank you for the money.  Oh,” she said with a gasp.  “To think that people can earn five pounds so easy.”