it in four-and-twenty hours—­striking the blow, without risk to himself, by means of another hand.  In the face of the probabilities, in the face of the facts, he had now firmly persuaded himself that Sir Joseph was privy to the fraud that had been practiced on him.  The Marriage-Settlement, the Will, the presence of the family at his country house—­all these he believed to be so many stratagems invented to keep him deceived until the last moment.  The truth was in those words which he had overheard between Sir Joseph and Launce—­and in Launce’s presence (privately encouraged, no doubt) at Muswell Hill.  “Her father shall pay me for it doubly:  with his purse and with his life.”  With that thought in his heart, Richard Turlington wound his way through the streets by the river-side, and stopped at a blind alley called Green Anchor Lane, infamous to this day as the chosen resort of the most abandoned wretches whom London can produce.

The policeman at the corner cautioned him as he turned into the alley.  “They won’t hurt me!” he answered, and walked on to a public-house at the bottom of the lane.

The landlord at the door silently recognized him, and led the way in.  They crossed a room filled with sailors of all nations drinking; ascended a staircase at the back of the house, and stopped at the door of the room on the second floor.  There the landlord spoke for the first time.  “He has outrun his allowance, sir, as usual.  You will find him with hardly a rag on his back.  I doubt if he will last much longer.  He had another fit of the horrors last night, and the doctor thinks badly of him.”  With that introduction he opened the door, and Turlington entered the room.

On the miserable bed lay a gray-headed old man of gigantic stature, with nothing on him but a ragged shirt and a pair of patched, filthy trousers.  At the side of the bed, with a bottle of gin on the rickety table between them, sat two hideous leering, painted monsters, wearing the dress of women.  The smell of opium was in the room, as well as the smell of spirits.  At Turlington’s appearance, the old man rose on the bed and welcomed him with greedy eyes and outstretched hand.

“Money, master!” he called out hoarsely.  “A crown piece in advance, for the sake of old times!”

Turlington turned to the women without answering, purse in hand.

“His clothes are at the pawnbroker’s, of course.  How much?”

“Thirty shillings.”

“Bring them here, and be quick about it.  You will find it worth your while when you come back.”

The women took the pawnbroker’s tickets from the pockets of the man’s trousers and hurried out.

Turlington closed the door, and seated himself by the bedside.  He laid his hand familiarly on the giant’s mighty shoulder, looked him full in the face, and said, in a whisper,

“Thomas Wildfang!”

The man started, and drew his huge hairy hand across his eyes, as if in doubt whether he was waking or sleeping.  “It’s better than ten years, master, since you called me by my name.  If I am Thomas Wildfang, what are you?”