e sort of explanation which I will try
to invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can't touch
a penny of it without forgery, it will do no harm to my little scheme."

"But what am I to do?" asked Joseph; "I cannot live upon nothing."

"Don't you hear?" returned Michael. "I send you a cheque for a hundred;
which leaves you eighty to go along upon; and when that's done, apply to
me again."

"I would rather not be beholden to your bounty all the same," said
Joseph, biting at his white moustache. "I would rather live on my own
money, since I have it."

Michael grasped his arm. "Will nothing make you believe," he cried,
"that I am trying to save you from Dartmoor?"

His earnestness staggered the old man. "I must turn my attention to
law," he said; "it will be a new field; for though, of course, I
understand its general principles, I have never really applied my mind
to the details, and this view of yours, for example, comes on me
entirely by surprise. But you may be right, and of course at my time of
life--for I am no longer young--any really long term of imprisonment
would be highly prejudicial. But, my dear nephew, I have no claim on
you; you have no call to support me."

"That's all right," said Michael; "I'll probably get it out of the
leather business."

And having taken down the old gentleman's address, Michael left him at
the corner of a street.

"What a wonderful old muddler!" he reflected, "and what a singular thing
is life! I seem to be condemned to be the instrument of Providence. Let
me see; what have I done to-day? Disposed of a dead body, saved Pitman,
saved my Uncle Joseph, brightened up Forsyth, and drunk a devil of a lot
of most indifferent liquor. Let's top off with a visit to my cousins,
and be the instrument of Providence in earnest. To-morrow I can turn my
attention to leather; to-night I'll just make it lively for 'em in a
friendly spirit."

About a quarter of an hour later, as the clocks were striking eleven,
the instrument of Providence descended from a hansom, and, bidding the
driver wait, rapped at the door of No. 16 John Street.

It was promptly opened by Morris.

"O, it's you, Michael," he said, carefully blocking up the narrow
opening: "it's very late."

Michael without a word reached forth, grasped Morris warmly by the hand,
and gave it so extreme a squeeze that the sullen householder fell back.
Profiting by this movement, the lawyer obtained a footing in the lobb