was serene, with the promise of a
broiling noon; but as far as Sam was concerned, Egyptian darkness
would have been better. He shivered: at the corner of the street he
met the local policeman and winced.

But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his
steps were bending. The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly
as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table.
If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered
cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater,
pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid
significance.

Sam paused at the door. The two friends had barely spoken for more
than a month. Three days ago they had all but fought. All this,
however, was forgotten now.

"Is that you, Sam? Come in."

Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper
feebly, and groaned.

"Moggridge, old man--"

"Sam!"

"What a pair of asses we have been!

"The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper.

"I know," nodded Sam; "is it true, d'ye think?"

"My heart forebodes," said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further--
"my heart forebodes 'tis true, 'tis true; then deck my shroud about
with rue, and lay me 'neath the dismal--"

"Pooh!" broke in Sam; "stuff and nonsense, man! It's bad for you, I
know, but after all _I'm_ the sufferer."

The Collector of Customs turned a glassy stare upon him.

"_I_ carried the bag up to Five Lanes; _I_ put the infernal stuff
into her very hands; _I_--"

"_You?_"

Sam nodded desperately. "She asked me to elope with her--to meet her
at Five Lanes."

Mr. Moggridge staggered up to his feet, and fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket.

"You are mad!" he gasped. "She asked _me_ to elope with her--_me_ to
meet her at the top of Troy Hill. Look here!" He held out a crumpled
letter. Sam took it, glanced at it, produced an exactly similar
note, and handed it to his friend.

They read each the other's letter sentence by sentence, and in
doleful antiphon. At the conclusion they looked up, and met each
other's gaze; whereat Mr. Moggridge smote his brow and cried--

"False, false!"

While Sam pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and emitted
a long breath, as though, his cup being full, he must needs blow off
the froth.

"Do you mean to say," he asked, after a pause, "that you helped her
to land the stuff?"

"I thought it was Tea."

"And you never exa