go and meet him anywhere about the City, as she did me. I
suppose Pollocky is fifty, if he's a day."

"And she dropped him also?"

"Or else it was he." On receipt of this information Crocker whistled.
"It was something about money," continued Tribbledale. "The old woman
wouldn't part."

"There is money I suppose?"

"The old woman has a lot."

"And isn't the niece to have it?" asked Crocker.

"No doubt she will; because there never was a pair more loving. But
the old lady will keep it herself as long as she is here." Then there
entered an idea into Crocker's head that if he could manage to make
Clara his own, he might have power enough to manage the aunt as well
as the niece. They had a little more whiskey-and-water at the Angel
at Islington before they got into the cab which was to take them down
to the Paphian Music-Hall, and after that Tribbledale passed from the
realm of partial fact to that of perfect poetry. "He would never," he
said, "abandon Clara Demijohn, though he should live to an age beyond
that of any known patriarch. He quite knew all that there was against
him. Crocker he thought might probably prevail. He rather hoped
that Crocker might prevail;--for why should not so good a fellow be
made happy, seeing how utterly impossible it was that he, Daniel
Tribbledale, should ever reach that perfect bliss in dreaming of
which he passed his miserable existence. But as to one thing he had
quite made up his mind. The day that saw Clara Demijohn a bride would
most undoubtedly be the last of his existence."

"Oh, no, damme; you won't," said Crocker turning round upon him in
the cab.

"I shall!" said Tribbledale with emphasis. "And I've made up my mind
how to do it too. They've caged up the Monument, and you're so looked
after on the Duke of York's, that there isn't a chance. But there's
nothing to prevent you from taking a header at the Whispering Gallery
of Saint Paul's. You'd be more talked of that way, and the vergers
would be sure to show the stains made on the stones below. 'It was
here young Tribbledale fell,--a clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's,
who dashed out his brains for love on the very day as Clara Demijohn
got herself married.' I'm of that disposition, Crocker, as I'd do
anything for love;--anything." Crocker was obliged to reply that he
trusted he might never be the cause of such a fatal attempt at glory;
but he went on to explain that in the pursuit of love a man could not
in any degree give