the name they want. Not finding it at number one, they come to number two. On the hat of wanderer number two, the shorter one, I drop this pellet. Hitting him on the hat, I smoke serenely, and become absorbed in contemplation of the sky.”

Both the wanderers looked up towards the window; but, after interchanging a mutter or two, soon applied themselves to the door-posts below. There they seemed to discover what they wanted, for they disappeared from view by entering at the doorway. “When they emerge,” said Eugene, “you shall see me bring them both down”; and so prepared two pellets for the purpose.

He had not reckoned on their seeking his name, or Lightwood’s. But either the one or the other would seem to be in question, for now there came a knock at the door. “I am on duty to-night,” said Mortimer, “stay you where you are, Eugene.” Requiring no persuasion, he stayed there, smoking quietly, and not at all curious to know who knocked, until Mortimer spoke to him from within the room, and touched him. Then, drawing in his head, he found the visitors to be young Charley Hexam and the schoolmaster; both standing facing him, and both recognized at a glance.

“You recollect this young fellow, Eugene?” said Mortimer.

“Let me look at him,” returned Wrayburn, coolly. “Oh, yes, yes. I recollect him!”

He had not been about to repeat that former action of taking him by the chin, but the boy had suspected him of it, and had thrown up his arm with an angry start. Laughingly, Wrayburn looked to Lightwood for an explanation of this odd visit.

“He says he has something to say.”

“Surely it must be to you, Mortimer.”

“So I thought, but he says no. He says it is to you.”

“Yes, I do say so,” interposed the boy. “And I mean to say what I want to say, too, Mr Eugene Wrayburn!”

Passing him with his eyes as if there were nothing where he stood, Eugene looked on to Bradley Headstone. With consummate indolence, he turned to Mortimer, inquiring: “And who may this other person be?”

“I am Charles Hexam’s friend,” said Bradley; “I am Charles Hexam’s schoolmaster.”

“My good sir, you should teach your pupils better manners,” returned Eugene.

Composedly smoking, he leaned an elbow on the chimneypiece, at the side of the fire, and looked at the schoolmaster. It was a cruel look, in its cold disdain of him, as a creature of no worth. The schoolmaster looked at him, and that, too, was a cruel look, though of the different kind, that it had a raging jealousy and fiery wrath in it.

Very remarkably, neither Eugene Wrayburn nor Bradley Headstone looked at all at the boy. Through the ensuing dialogue, those two, no matter who spoke, or whom was addressed, looked at each other. There was some secret, sure perception between them, which set them against one another in all ways.

“In some high respects, Mr Eugene Wrayburn,” said Bradley, answering him with pale and quivering lips, “the natural feelings of my pupils are stronger than my teaching.”

“In most respects, I dare say,” replied Eugene, enjoying his cigar, “though whether high or low is of no importance. You have my name very correctly. Pray what is yours?”

“It cannot concern you much to know, but—”