He evaded my proffered friendship with a blunt proposal to rejoin the mess; and yet a moment later, contrived to alleviate the snub.  For, as we entered the smoking-room, he laid his hand on my shoulder with a kind familiarity.

“I have just prescribed for Mr. Dodd,” says he, “a glass of our Madeira.”

I have never again met Dr. Urquart:  but he wrote himself so clear upon my memory that I think I see him still.  And indeed I had cause to remember the man for the sake of his communication.  It was hard enough to make a theory fit the circumstances of the Flying Scud; but one in which the chief actor should stand the least excused, and might retain the esteem or at least the pity of a man like Dr. Urquart, failed me utterly.  Here at least was the end of my discoveries; I learned no more, till I learned all; and my reader has the evidence complete.  Is he more astute than I was? or, like me, does he give it up?

CHAPTER XVIII.  CROSS-QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS.

I have said hard words of San Francisco; they must scarce be literally understood (one cannot suppose the Israelites did justice to the land of Pharaoh); and the city took a fine revenge of me on my return.  She had never worn a more becoming guise; the sun shone, the air was lively, the people had flowers in their button-holes and smiles upon their faces; and as I made my way towards Jim’s place of employment, with some very black anxieties at heart, I seemed to myself a blot on the surrounding gaiety.

My destination was in a by-street in a mean, rickety building; “The Franklin H. Dodge Steam Printing Company” appeared upon its front, and in characters of greater freshness, so as to suggest recent conversion, the watch-cry, “White Labour Only.”  In the office, in a dusty pen, Jim sat alone before a table.  A wretched change had overtaken him in clothes, body, and bearing; he looked sick and shabby; he who had once rejoiced in his day’s employment, like a horse among pastures, now sat staring on a column of accounts, idly chewing a pen, at times heavily sighing, the picture of inefficiency and inattention.  He was sunk deep in a painful reverie; he neither saw nor heard me; and I stood and watched him unobserved.  I had a sudden vain relenting.  Repentance bludgeoned me.  As I had predicted to Nares, I stood and kicked myself.  Here was I come home again, my honour saved; there was my friend in want of rest, nursing, and a generous diet; and I asked myself with Falstaff, “What is in that word honour? what is that honour?” and, like Falstaff, I told myself that it was air.

“Jim!” said I.

“Loudon!” he gasped, and jumped from his chair and stood shaking.

The next moment I was over the barrier, and we were hand in hand.

“My poor old man!” I cried.

“Thank God, you’re home at last!” he gulped, and kept patting my shoulder with his hand.