As Trinity clock struck eight, he entered a low bar-room in the neighborhood of the docks.

A young man with pale, sandy hair stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up.  He was supplying the wants of a sailor who already appeared to have taken more drink than was good for him.

“Good evening, Mr. Dawkins,” said he, “you’re a stranger.”

“Is Duval in?” inquired Dawkins, coldly.  His pride revolted at the place and company.  He had never been here but once before, having met Duval elsewhere.

“He’s up in his room.  John show the young gentleman up to No. 9.  Won’t you have a glass of something this evening?”

“No,” said Dawkins, abruptly.

The boy preceded him up a dark and dirty staircase.

“That’s the room, sir,” he said.

“Stop a minute,” said Dawkins, “he may not be in.”

He inwardly hoped he might not.  But Duval answered his knock by coming to the door himself.

“Delighted to see you, mon ami.  John, may leave the lamp.  That’s all, unless Mr. Dawkins wishes to order something.”

“I want nothing,” said Dawkins.

“They have some capital brandy.”

“I am not in the mood for drinking tonight.”

“As you please,” said the Frenchman, disappointed; “be seated.”

Dawkins sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, minus an arm.

“Well,” said Duval, “how much money have you brought me?”

“None.”

The Frenchman frowned and stroked his mustache, fiercely.

“What does all this mean?  Are you going to put me off longer?”

“I would pay it if I could,” said Dawkins, “but I haven’t got the money.”

“You could get it.”

“How?”

“Ask your father.”

“My father would rave if he knew that I had lost money in such a way.”

“But you need not tell him.”

“If I ask for money, he will be sure to ask what I want it for.”

“Tell him you want clothes, or a watch, or a hundred things.”

Dawkins shook his head; “it won’t do,” said he.  “He wouldn’t give me a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Then ask seventy-five, and I will wait a month for the rest.”

“Look here, Duval, you have no rightful claim to this money.  You’ve got enough out of me.  Just tear up the paper.”

Duval laughed scornfully, “Aha, Mr. Dawkins,” he said, “that would be a very pretty arrangement for you.  But I don’t see how it is going to benefit me.  No, no, I can’t afford to throw away a hundred and fifty dollars so easily.  If I was a rich man like your father it would make a difference.”

“Then you won’t remit the debt,” said Dawkins, sullenly.

“You would think me a great ninny, if I did.”

“Then you may collect it the best way you can.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded the Frenchman, his face darkening.