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 unconscious, and probably dead. I staggered I staggered towards him, and remembered nothing more.

I came to myself, I do not know when—I do not know how. I was in a hansom. I was being driven rapidly through streets which were now almost deserted, in some direction, I knew not where. I could not recall at first what had occurred, but memory quickly returned to me. I saw the face of the dead man as he lay stretched on the floor. I saw once again that dreadful room, with its false books, its mockery of supper, its mockery of comfort. Above all things, I smelt once again that most horrible, suffocating odour.

"Charcoal," I muttered to myself. "There must have been a charcoal furnace under the room. I was duped into that den. Leonora Whitby, beautiful as she appeared, was in league with her father to rob me and take my life; but how have I escaped? Where am I now—where am I going? How, in the name of all that is wonderful, have I got into this hansom?"

There was a brisk breeze blowing, and each moment my brain was becoming clearer. The fumes of the charcoal were leaving me. I was vigorous and well—quite well, and with a keen memory of the past once again. I pushed my hand through the little window, and shouted to the driver to stop.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked. "How is it that I am here?"

He pulled up immediately, and drew his horse towards the pavement. The street was very quiet—it was a large thoroughfare—but the hour must have been nearly two in the morning.

"Where are you taking me?" I repeated.

"Home, sir, of course," replied the man. "I have your address, and it's all right. You sit quiet, sir."

"No, I won't, until you tell me where you are taking me," I answered. "How did I get into this hansom? You cannot drive me home, for you do not know my address."

"Ain't it St. John's Wood Avenue?" replied the man. "The gent, he said so. He gave me your card—Mr. George Cobb, 19, St. John's Wood Avenue."

"Nothing of the kind," I called back, in indignation. "My name is not Mr. George Cobb. Show me the card."

The man fumbled in his breast-pocket, and presently pushed a dirty piece of paste-board through the window. I thrust it into my pocket.

"And now tell me," I said, "how I got into this cab."

"Well, sir," he replied, after a brief moment of hesitation, "I am glad you're better—lor, it isn't anything to fret about—it happens to many and many a gent. You was dead drunk, and stretched on the pavement, sir, and an old gentleman with white 'air he come up and he looks at yer, and he shouts to me:—

Cabby,' says he, 'are you good for a job?'

Yes, sir,' I answers.

Well, then,' says he, 'you take this young gentleman 'ome. He's drunk, and ef police see him, they'll lock him up—but ef you get down and give me a 'and, we'll get 'im into your 'ansom—and this is where he lives at least, I suppose so, for this card was found on 'im.'

Right you air,' I says to the old gent, and between us we got you into the cab, and 'ere we are now a-driving back to St. John's Wood Avenue."

"Cabby, I have been the victim of the most awful plot, and—and," I continued,