CHAPTER III.

’Here ye are, gen-till-men!  This fine de-tersive soap—­on-ly thrippence a tab-let—­takes stains out of all kinds of things.  Step up while there air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.’

‘Who’s that guy in the soap-trade?’ asked one policeman of another one as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation is reported above.

‘He’s a deep one, hi know,’ said the one asked. ’’Is name is Grayle, Louis Grayle.  There’s hodd stories ’bout ’im, werry hodd.  ’E tries to work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein’ ha ’undred hand ten years hold.  Says ‘e’s got some kind o’ water wot kips hun’ from growink hold, My heye! strikes me if ’e ’ad, ‘e wouldn’t bein’ sellin’ soap ’bout ’ere.  Go hup to ’im hand tell ’im to move hon, ’e’s ben wurkin this lay long enough, I ham thinkin’.

Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw him.  By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum cocktails—­two little facts neglected to be mentioned in ’A Strange Story.’  Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to profitable account—­the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from habits.

CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were circulated as filling the air she ruled.

CHAPTER V.

Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid.  His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another.  Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh!

Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium.  He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward.