eet their Maker! Some
of these brazen creatures who leered at me had known how long ago!
--a peaceful home and a mother's love; had been lured in their innocence to
this place of horrors, never to leave it until death mercifully overtakes
them. Others, having fallen, had been driven hither by a cruel world
that shelters all save the helpless, that forgives all save the truly
penitent. I shuddered as I thought of Mr. Hogarth's prints, which, in
the library in Marlboro' Street at home, had had so little meaning for
me. Verily he had painted no worse than the reality. As I strode
homeward, my own sorrow subdued by the greater sorrow I had looked upon,
the craving I had had to be alone was gone, and I would have locked arms
with a turnspit. I called to Banks, who was behind at a respectful
distance, and bade him come talk to me. His presence of mind in calling
on the watch had made even a greater impression upon me than his bravery.
I told him that he should have ten pounds, and an increase of wages. And
I asked him where I had gone after leaving Dover Street, and why he had
followed me. He answered this latter question first. He had seen
gentlemen in the same state, or something like it, before: his Lordship,
his late master, after he had fought with Mr. Onslow, of the Guards, and
Sir Edward Minturn, when he had lost an inheritance and a reversion at
Brooks's, and was forced to give over his engagement to marry the
Honourable Miss Swift. "Lord, sir," he said, "but that was a sad case,
as set all London agog. And Sir Edward shot hisself at Portsmouth not a
se'nnight after."

And he relapsed into silence, no doubt longing to ask the cause of my own
affliction. Presently he surprised me by saying:

"And I might make so bold, Mr. Carvel, I would like to tell your honour
something."

I nodded. And he hawed awhile and then burst out:

"Your honour must know then that I belongs to the footman's club in
Berkeley Square, where I meets all the servants o' quality--"

"Yes," I said, wondering what footman's tale he had to tell.

"And Whipple, he's a hintimate o' mine, sir." He stopped again.

"And who may Whipple be?"

"With submission, sir. Whipple's his Grace o' Chartersea's man--and,
you'll forgive me, sir--Whipple owns his Grace is prodigious ugly, an'
killed young Mr. Atwater unfair, some think. Whipple says he would give
notice had he not promised the old duke--"

"Drat Whipple!" I cried.

"Yes, sir. To be sure, sir