At the corner of the Haymarket, he very jauntily hailed a hansom cab; jumped in; bade the fellow drive him to a part of the Embankment, which he named; and as soon as the vehicle was in motion, concealed the bag as completely as he could under the vantage of the apron, and once more drew out his watch. So he rode for five interminable minutes, his heart in his mouth at every jolt, scarce able to possess his terrors, yet fearing to wake the attention of the driver by too obvious a change of plan, and willing, if possible, to leave him time to forget the Gladstone bag.

At length, at the head of some stairs on the Embankment, he hailed; the cab was stopped; and he alighted - with how glad a heart! He thrust his hand into his pocket. All was now over; he had saved his life; nor that alone, but he had engineered a striking act of dynamite; for what could be more pictorial, what more effective, than the explosion of a hansom cab, as it sped rapidly along the streets of London. He felt in one pocket; then in another. The most crushing seizure of despair descended on his soul; and struck into abject dumbness, he stared upon the driver. He had not one penny.

`Hillo,' said the driver, `don't seem well.'

`Lost my money,' said M'Guire, in tones so faint and strange that they surprised his hearing.

The man looked through the trap. `I dessay,' said he: `you've left your bag.'

M'Guire half unconsciously fetched it out; and looking on that black continent at arm's length, withered inwardly and felt his features sharpen as with mortal sickness.

`This is not mine,' said he. `Your last fare must have left it. You had better take it to the station.'

`Now look here,' returned the cabman: `are you off your chump? or am I?'

`Well, then, I'll tell you what,' exclaimed M'Guire; `you take it for your fare!'

`Oh, I dessay,' replied the driver. `Anything else? What's IN your bag? Open it, and let me see.'

`No, no,' returned M'Guire. `Oh no, not that. It's a surprise; it's prepared expressly: a surprise for honest cabmen.'

`No, you don't,' said the man, alighting from his perch, and coming very close to the unhappy patriot. `You're either going to pay my fare, or get in again and drive to the office.'

It was at this supreme hour of his distress, that M'Guire spied the stout figure of one Godall, a tobacconist of Rupert Street, drawing near along the Embankment. The man was not unknown to him; he had bought of his wares, and heard him quoted for the soul of liberality; and such was now the nearness of his peril, that even at such a straw of hope, he clutched with gratitude.

`Thank God!' he cried. `Here comes a friend of mine. I'll borrow.' And he dashed to meet the tradesman. `Sir,' said he, `Mr. Godall, I have dealt with you - you doubtless know my face - calamities for which I cannot blame myself have overwhelmed me. Oh, sir, for the love of innocence, for the sake of the bonds of humanity, and as you hope for mercy at the throne of grace, lend me two-and-six!'

`I do not recognise your face,' replied Mr. Godall; `but I remember the cut of your beard, which I have the misfortune to dislike. Here, sir, is a sovereign; which I very willingly advance to you, on the single condition that you shave your chin.'