He stretched forth a languid hand, smiling amiably.  Narramore was the image of luxurious indolence; he had pleasant features, dark hair inclined to curliness, a well-built frame set off by good tailoring.  His income from the commercial house in which he held a post of responsibility would have permitted him to occupy better quarters than these; but here he had lived for ten years, and he preferred a few inconveniences to the trouble of moving.  Trouble of any kind was Robert’s bugbear.  His progress up the commercial ladder seemed due rather to the luck which favours amiable and good-looking young fellows than to any special ability or effort of his own.  The very sound of his voice had a drowsiness which soothed—­if it did not irritate—­the listener.

“Tell them to lay out the truckle-bed,” said Hilliard, when he had pulled the bell.  “I shall stay here to-night.”

“Good!”

Their talk was merely interjectional, until the visitor had begun to appease his hunger and had drawn the cork of a second bottle of bitter ale.

“This is a great day,” Hilliard then exclaimed.  “I left Dudley this afternoon feeling ready to cut my throat.  Now I’m a free man, with the world before me.”

“How’s that?”

“Emily’s going to take a second husband—­that’s one thing.”

“Heaven be praised!  Better than one could have looked for.”

Hilliard related the circumstances.  Then he drew from his pocket an oblong slip of paper, and held it out.

“Dengate?” cried his friend.  “How the deuce did you get hold of this?”

Explanation followed.  They debated Dengate’s character and motives.

“I can understand it,” said Narramore.  “When I was a boy of twelve I once cheated an apple-woman out of three-halfpence.  At the age of sixteen I encountered the old woman again, and felt immense satisfaction in giving her a shilling.  But then, you see, I had done with petty cheating; I wished to clear my conscience, and look my fellow-woman in the face.”

“That’s it, no doubt.  He seems to have got some sort of position in Liverpool society, and he didn’t like the thought that there was a poor devil at Dudley who went about calling him a scoundrel.  By-the-bye, someone told him that I had taken to liquor, and was on my way to destruction generally.  I don’t know who it could be.”

“Oh, we all have candid friends that talk about us.

“It’s true I have been drunk now and then of late.  There’s much to be said for getting drunk.”

“Much,” assented Narramore, philosophically.

Hilliard went on with his supper; his friend puffed tobacco, and idly regarded the cheque he was still holding.

“And what are you going to do?” he asked at length.

There came no reply, and several minutes passed in silence.  Then Hilliard rose from the table, paced the floor once or twice, selected a cigar from a box that caught his eye, and, in cutting off the end, observed quietly—­