ight go back to Burton Crescent;
but, of course I knew that that would be out of the
question. So it ended in my going home and sleeping on his
sofa, and sending for some of my things in the morning.
I wanted him to get up and see Lupex before going to the
office this morning. But he said it would be better to
put it off, and so he will call upon him at the theatre
immediately after office hours.

I want you to write to me at once saying what you know
about the matter. I ask you, as I don't want to lug in any
of the other people at Roper's. It is very uncomfortable,
as I can't exactly leave her at once because of last
quarter's money, otherwise I should cut and run; for the
house is not the sort of place either for you or me. You
may take my word for that, Master Johnny. And I could tell
you another thing, too about A. R., only I don't want to
make mischief. But do you write immediately. And now I
think of it, you had better write to Fisher, so that he can
show your letter to Lupex,--just saying, that to the best
of your belief there had never been anything between her
and me but mere friendship; and that, of course, you, as my
friend, must have known everything. Whether I shall go back
to Roper's to-night will depend on what Fisher says after
the interview.

Good-bye, old fellow! I hope you are enjoying yourself, and
that L. D. is quite well.

Your sincere friend,

JOSEPH CRADELL.

John Eames read this letter over twice before he opened that from
Amelia. He had never yet received a letter from Miss Roper; and felt
very little of that ardour for its perusal which young men generally
experience on the receipt of a first letter from a young lady. The
memory of Amelia was at the present moment distasteful to him; and he
would have thrown the letter unopened into the fire, had he not felt
it might be dangerous to do so. As regarded his friend Cradell, he
could not but feel ashamed of him,--ashamed of him, not for running
away from Mr Lupex, but for excusing his escape on false pretences.

And then, at last, he opened the letter from Amelia. "Dearest John,"
it began; and as he read the words, he crumpled the paper up between
his fingers. It was written in a fair female hand, with sharp points
instead of curves to the letters, but still very legible, and looking
as though there were a decided purport in every word of it.

DEARE