black toothbrush worn stumpy."

"You said that you had some news," said Dick, angrily.

"And then there's him as ought to ha' been the worst of all you three.
He got burnt a deal, but it was mostly about the clothes. The padding
in his uniform seemed to save him. I say--what are you going to do with
yourself to-day?"

"Nothing."

"Let me give you a shampoo and a touch up."

Dick shook his head impatiently, and lay back, a shadow of his former
self.

"You'd better!"

"Don't worry me, Jerry! You said you had some news."

"It's a letter," said the man, looking at him curiously.

"A letter?" cried Dick, starting; but the interest he took was only
momentary, and his eyes half-closed again.

"Yes, a letter. I've had it two days, and didn't like to give it to you
before."

"Why not?"

Jerry took a note from his breast, and held it so that the invalid could
see first that it was not addressed, the envelope being blank; and then,
slowly turning it round, so that Dick could see a crest stamped in
colours upon the back.

That had its effect, for a flush came into the invalid's hollow cheeks,
and he glared at Jerry.

"Where did you get that?" he cried.

"He give it me."

"Well?"

"To give to you. I see him the day before yesterday, and he told me to
come to his rooms, and asked me about the bandsman whom the fellows said
saved three people, and what your name might be. Then he asked if it
was you who pulled him out, and I said it was, feeling quite queer the
while; for it seemed so strange that you should have saved his life
after all as took place. Then he set down at his table, looking not a
bit the worse, asked how you spell your name, and I told him Richard
Smithson, and he wrote this and sent it by me."

"Do you know what's in it?"

Jerry nodded.

"Then he recognised me?"

"No--he don't even know that he ever see you."

"But he seemed to know me at the ball."

"Oh, no! he didn't know you. He thinks you're dead as dead."

"But you say you know what is in that note?"

"Oh, yes!"

"You've read it?"

"Not that."

"What do you mean?"

Jerry took a closely-folded newspaper from his pocket.

"_Ratcham, Dolchester, and Froude Magnet_, sir--Richard Smithson," he
read, and then doubling it closely, held it out, pointing to a
paragraph.

"My eyes swim. I don't understand what you mean, Jerry."

"Shall I read it, sir?"

"Yes."

Jerry coughed and then began:--

"The Late Fire at