Polkenhorne’s acquaintances were numerous, but, as he informed Joseph, most of them were ‘played out,’ that is to say, no further use could be made of them from Polkenhorne’s point of view.  One, however, as yet imperfectly known, promised to be useful, perchance as a victim, more probably as an ally; his name was Scawthorne, and Polkenhorne had come across him in consequence of a friendship existing between Grace Danver and Mrs. Scawthorne—­at all events, a young lady thus known—­who was preparing herself for the stage.  This gentleman was ‘something in the City;’ he had rather a close look, but proved genial enough, and was very ready to discuss things in general with Mr. Polkenhorne and his capitalist friend Mr. Camden, just from the United States.

A word or two about Charles Henry Scawthorne, of the circumstances which made him what you know, or what you conjecture.  His father had a small business as a dyer in Islington, and the boy, leaving school at fourteen, was sent to become a copying-clerk in a solicitor’s office; his tastes were so strongly intellectual that it seemed a pity to put him to work he hated, and the clerkship was the best opening that could be procured for him.  Two years after, Mr. Scawthorne died; his wife tried to keep on the business, but soon failed, and thenceforth her son had to support her as well as himself.  From sixteen to three-and-twenty was the period of young Scawthorne’s life which assured his future advancement—­and his moral ruin.  A grave, gentle, somewhat effeminate boy, with a great love of books and a wonderful power of application to study, he suffered so much during those years of early maturity, that, as in almost all such eases, his nature was corrupted.  Pity that some self-made intellectual man of our time has not flung in the world’s teeth a truthful autobiography.  Scawthorne worked himself up to a position which had at first seemed unattainable; what he paid for the success was loss of all his pure ideals, of his sincerity, of his disinterestedness, of the fine perceptions to which he was born.  Probably no one who is half-starved and overworked during those critical years comes out of the trial with his moral nature uninjured; to certain characters it is a wrong irreparable.  To stab the root of a young tree, to hang crushing burdens upon it, to rend off its early branches—­that is not the treatment likely to result in growth such as nature purposed.  There will come of it a vicious formation, and the principle applies also to the youth of men.

Scawthorne was fond of the theatre; as soon as his time of incessant toll was over, he not only attended performances frequently, but managed to make personal acquaintance with sundry theatrical people.  Opportunity for this was afforded by his becoming member of a club, consisting chiefly of solicitors’ clerks, which was frequently honoured by visits from former associates who had taken to the stage; these happy beings would