self at home, I beg!” And with twinkling eyes and brisk gestures the little old gentleman departed, of all Tom’s good Samaritans, assuredly the prince and king.
No sooner was he alone than Tom caught up the Advertiser and found half a column about the murder; and, yes! there was his name. The Adcocks had volunteered it, together with a full description, whose accuracy tempted Tom not to wait for his supper, but to rush through the open window and swim the river in his clothes. Yet there was more that must be read. The case against him was stronger than ever. The threatening letters had been found among the dead man’s effects. The hackney-coachman had told his story, and here it was. But one name was gratefully absent; that of Harding did not occur in the closely printed half-column, which so strangely fascinated Tom that his quaint Samaritan was back before he had put the paper down.
“What! Feeding the mind before the body? Well, well, to be sure!”
“I hadn’t seen to-day’s paper,” said Tom, feebly.
“Aha! I know what you were reading, too.” The old gentleman chuckled as he poured sherry into two tumblers. “I know—I know!”
“What?” asked Tom, hoarsely.
“My eyes are good—my eyes are excellent. You were reading the Hampstead murder.” Tom held his breath. “I never read such things myself,” pursued the other; “but I did when I was young. Oh, Lord, yes! Blood was my negus then.”
And with his childlike laugh he handed Tom one steaming tumbler, mixed another for himself, and insisted on clinking glasses before they drank. Tom spilt
