The glassy eyes of the Ritualistic organist are fixed upon him in a most uncomfortable manner, but no comment comes.

“And I, Mr. Bumstead,” says the old lawyer, “must apologize to you for having indulged a wrong suspicion.  Possibly you were rather rash in charging everybody else with assassination and larceny, and offering to marry my ward upon the strength of her dislike to you; but we’ll say no more of those things now.  Miss Potts has consented to become Mrs. Pendragon; Miss pendragon is the betrothed of Rev. Mr. Simpson,—­”

“—­Miss CAROWTHERS honors me with a matrimonial preference,” interpolates Judge Sweeney, gallantly bowing to that spinster.—­

“—­Breachy Mr. Blodgett!” sighs the lady, to herself.—­

“—­And three weddings will help us to forget everything but that which is bright and pleasant,” concludes the lawyer.

Next steps to the front Mr. Tracey CLEWS, with his surprising head of hair, and archly remarks: 

“I believe you take me for a literary man, Mr. Bumstead.”

“What is that to me, sir? I’ve no money to lend,” returns the organist, with marked uneasiness.

“To tell you the truth,” proceeds the author of “The Amateur Detective,” —­“to tell you the whole truth, I have been playing the detective with you by order of Mr. Dibble, and hope you will excuse my practice upon you.”

“He is my clerk,” explains Mr. Dibble.

Whereupon Mr. Tracey CLEWS dexterously whips off his brush of red hair, and stands revealed as Mr. BLADAMS.

Merely waiting to granulate one more clove, Mr. Bumstead settles the rope about his neck anew, squints around under the wet towel in a curiously ghastly manner, and thus addresses the meeting:—­

“Ladies and gen’l’men—­I’ve listened to y’r impudence with patience, and on any other ’casion would be happy to see y’all safe home.  At present, however, Mr. Bentham and I desire to be left alone, if ‘ts all th’ same t’ you.  You can come for the bodies in th’ morning.”

“Bentham!  Bentham!” calls the Gospeler, “I can’t see you acting in that way, old friend.  Come home with me to-night, and we’ll talk of starting a Religious Weekly together.  That’s your only successful American Comic Paper.”

“By Jove! so it is!” bawls Jeremy Bentham, like one possessed.  “I never thought of that before!  I’m with you, my boy.”  And, hastily slipping the rope from his neck, he hurries to his friend’s side.

“And you, Uncle Jack—­look at this!” exclaims Mr. E. DROOD, bringing from behind his back and presenting to the melancholy organist a thing that looks, at first glance, like an incredibly slim little black girl, headless, with no waist at all, and balanced on one leg.

Mr. Bumstead reaches for it mechanically; a look of intelligence comes into his glassy eyes; then they fairly flame.