kard with cider and a lump of ice at the
'Rainbow'. What do you say to that?"

"It sounds touching," said Drysdale. So Tom posted off to Fleet
Street to order the liquor, and came back followed by a waiter
with the tankard. Drysdale took a long pull and smacked his lips.

"That's a wrinkle," he said, handing the tankard to Tom. "I
suppose the lawyers teach all the publicans about here a trick or
two. Why, one can fancy one's self back in the old quad, looking
out on this court. If it weren't such an outlandish
out-of-the-way place, I think I should take some chambers here
myself. How did you get here?"

"Oh, they belong to a friend of mine who is away. But how did
_you_ get here?"

"Why, along the Strand, in a Hansom."

"I mean, how did you know I was here?"

"Grey told me."

"What! Grey, who was at St. Ambrose's with us?"

"Yes. You look puzzled."

"I didn't think you knew Grey."

"No more I do. But a stout old party I met last night--your
godfather, I should think he is--told me where he was, and said I
should get your address from him. So I looked him up this
morning, in that dog-hole in Westminster where he lives. He
didn't know Jack from Adam."

"But what in the world do you mean by my godfather?"

"I had better tell my story from the beginning, I see. Last night
I did what I don't often do, went out to a great drum. There was
an awful crush, of course, and you may guess what the heat was in
these dog-days, with gas-lights and wax-lights going, and a jam
of people in every corner. I was fool enough to get into the
rooms, so that my retreat was cut off; and I had to work right
through, and got at last into a back room, which was not so full.
The window was in a recess, and there was a balcony outside,
looking over a little bit of garden. I got into the balcony,
talking with a girl who was sensible enough to like the cool.
Presently I heard a voice I thought I knew inside. Then I heard
St. Ambrose, and then your name. Of course I listened; I couldn't
help myself. They were just inside the window, in the recess, not
five feet from us; so I heard pretty nearly ever word. Give us
the tankard; I'm as dry as an ash-heap with talking."

Tom, scarcely able to control his impatience, handed the tankard.
"But who was it?--you haven't told me," he said, as Drysdale put
it down at last empty.

"Why, that d--d St. Cloud. He was giving you a nice character, in
a sort of sneaking deprecatory way, as if he was