There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. I might have told you the truth. Its very calmness was frightful. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. " "I will go, if you will consent to meet me at midnight near the old house in Wych Street," replied Jack.
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