I put on my hat and retired. As I went down stairs I distinctly heard them give a suppressed cheer. Such is the power of demeanour and knowledge of mankind. I had forced it out of them.

II

Whom should I meet in the street, within a few yards of the door of the inn where the Club was held, but the self-same young man whoso cause I had felt it my duty so warmly—and I will add so disinterestedly—to take up.

“Is it Mr. Sapsea,” he said doubtfully, “or is it—”

“It is Mr. Sapsea,” I replied.

“Pardon me, Mr. Sapsea; you appear warm, sir.”

“I have been warm,” I said, “and on your account.” Having stated the circumstances at some length (my generosity almost overpowered him), I asked him his name.

“Mr. Sapsea,” he answered, looking down, “your penetration is so acute, your glance into the souls of your fellow men is so penetrating, that if I was hardly enough to deny that my name is Poker, what would it avail me?”

I don’t know that I had quite exactly made out to a fraction that his name was Poker, but I daresay I had been pretty near doing it.

“Well, well,” said I, trying to put him at his ease by nodding my head in a soothing way. “Your name is Poker, and there is no harm in being named Poker.”

“Oh, Mr. Sapsea!” cried the young man, in a very well-behaved manner. “Bless you for those words!” He then, as if ashamed of having given way to his feelings, looked down again.

“Come Poker,” said I, “let me hear more about you. Tell me. Where are you going to, Poker? and where do you come from?”

“Ah Mr. Sapsea!” exclaimed the young man. “Disguise from you is impossible. You know already that I come from somewhere, and am going somewhere else. If I was to deny it, what would it avail me?”

“Then don’t deny it,” was my remark.

“Or,” pursued Poker, in a kind of despondent rapture, “or if I was to deny that I came to this town to see and hear you, sir, what would it avail me? Or if I was to deny—”

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