The Ivory Gate, a new edition. Walter Besant

more strengthenin' for the stomach, better value all round for your money out of rum than any other drink that I know.'

      At this point, and before the waiter could execute the order, voices and steps were heard outside the room. The voices of two men. That of one loud, eager, noisy. That of the other quiet, measured, and calm.

      Checkley sat upright suddenly and listened.

      'That is young Cambridge,' said the old barrister. 'I thought he would be here – Saturday night and all.' He smiled, as if expectant of something, and drank off the rest of his beer at a draught.

      'Most distinguished Cambridge man,' whispered the ex-M.P. to his friends. 'Wanst a Fellow of Cambridge College. Great scholar. Ornament to any circle. Dhrinks likes an oyster. Son of a Bishop too – Son of an Irish Bishop – Talks Greek like English. He'll come in directly. He's taking something outside. He's always half dhrunk to begin, and quite dhrunk to finish. But he only talks the better – being Oirish. Most remarkable man.'

      The voice of this distinguished person Checkley knew. But the other voice? That he knew as well. And he could not remember whose voice it was. Very well indeed he remembered the sound of it. Some men never forget a face: some men never forget a shape or figure: some men never forget a voice: some men never forget a handwriting. A voice is the simplest thing, after all, to remember, and the most unchanging. From eighteen till eighty a man's voice changes not, save that in volume it decreases during the last decade: the distinguishing quality of the voice remains the same to the end.

      'Have a drink, my dear fellow.' That was the voice of the Pride of Cambridge.

      'Thanks. I don't want a drink.'

      Whose voice was it? Checkley sat up eager for the door to be opened, and that doubt to be resolved.

      It was opened. The two men came in first, the Cambridge man leading the way. He was a good-looking, smooth-faced man of thirty-two or so, with bright blue eyes – too bright – a fine face, full of delicacy and mobility, a high, narrow forehead, and quick sensitive lips; a man who was obviously in want of some one to take him in hand and control him: one of those men who have no will of their own, and fall naturally before any temptation which assails them. The chief temptation which assailed Freddy Carstone – it seems to stamp the man that his friends all called him Freddy – a Freddy is amiable, weak, beloved, and given to err, slip, fall, and give way – was the temptation to drink. He was really, as the ex-M.P. told his friends, a very fine scholar: he had been a Fellow of his college, but never received any appointment or office of Lecturer there on account of this weakness of his, which was notorious. When his Fellowship expired, he came to London, lived in Gray's Inn, and took pupils. He had the reputation of being an excellent coach if he could be caught sober. He was generally sober in the morning; often a little elevated in the afternoon; and always cheerfully – not stupidly – drunk at night.

      'You must have a drink,' Freddy repeated. 'Not want a drink? Hang it, old man, it isn't what you want, it's what you like. If I only took what I wanted, I should be – what should I be? Fellow and Tutor of the college – very likely Master – most probably Archdeacon – certainly Bishop. Wasn't my father a Bishop? Now, if you take what you like, as well as what you want – what happens? You go easily and comfortably down hill – down – down – down – like me. Tobogganing isn't easier: the switchback railway isn't more pleasant. Always take what you like.'

      'No – no, Freddy; thanks.'

      'What? You've got ambitions still? You want to be climbing? Man alive! it's too late. You've stayed away from your friends too long. You can't get up. Better join us at the Salutation Club. Come in with me. I'll introduce you. They'll be glad to have you. Intellectual conversation carried on nightly. Romantic scenery from the back window. Finest parlour in London. Come in and sample the Scotch. – Not want a drink? Who ever saw a man who didn't want a drink?'

      The other man followed, reluctantly – and at sight of him Checkley jumped in his chair. Then he snatched the paper from the hands of the ancient barrister, and buried his head in it. The action was most remarkable and unmistakable. He hid himself behind the paper; for the man whom the Cambridge scholar was dragging into the room was none other than Athelstan Arundel – the very man of whom Mr. Dering had been speaking that very afternoon: the very man whose loss he had been regretting: the man accused by himself of forgery. So great was his terror at the sight of this man that he was fain to hide behind the paper.

      Yes: the same man: well dressed, apparently, and prosperous – in a velvet jacket and a white waistcoat, with a big brown beard – still carrying himself with that old insolent pride, as if he had never forged anything: looking not a day older, in spite of the eight years that had elapsed. What was he doing here?

      'Come in, man,' said Freddy again. 'You shall have one drink at least, and as many more as you like. – Robert, two Scotch and soda. We haven't met for eight long years. Let us sit down and confess our sins for eight years. Where have you been?'

      'For the most part – abroad.'

      'You don't look it. He who goes abroad to make his fortune always comes home in rags, with a pistol in his coat-tail, and a bowie-knife in his belt. At least we are taught so. You wear velvet and fine linen. You haven't been abroad. I don't believe you've been farther than Camberwell. In fact, Camberwell has been your headquarters. You've been living in Camberwell – on Camberwell Green, which is a slice of Eden, with – perhaps – didn't pretty Polly Perkins live on Camberwell Green? – for eight long years.'

      'Let me call upon you in your lodgings, where we can talk.

      'I haven't got any lodgings. I am in Chambers – I live all by myself in Gray's Inn. Come and see me. I am always at home in the mornings – to pupils only – and generally at home in the afternoon to pupils and topers and Lushingtons. Here's your whisky. Sit down. Let me introduce you to the company. This is a highly intellectual society – not what you would expect of a Holborn Parlour. It is a club which meets here every evening – a first-class club. Subscription, nothing. Entrance fee, nothing. Order what you like. Don't pretend not to know your brother-members. – Gentlemen, this is my old friend, Mr. Athelstan Arundel, who has been abroad – on Camberwell Green – for the sake of Polly Perkins – for eight years, and has now returned.'

      The ex-M.P. nudged his friends to call their attention to something good. The rest received the introduction and the remarks which followed in silence.

      'Arundel, the gentleman by the fireplace, he with the pipe – is our Shylock, sometimes called the Lord Shylock.' The money-lender looked up with a dull and unintelligent eye: I believe the allusion was entirely above his comprehension. – 'Beside him is Mr. Vulpes – he with his head buried in the paper – you'll see him presently. Mr. Vulpes is advanced in years, but well preserved, and knows every letter of the law: he is, indeed, an ornament of the lower branch. Vulpes will let you a house – he has many most charming residences – or will advance you money on mortgage. He knows the law of landlord and tenant, and the law regarding Bills of Sale. I recommend Vulpes to your friendly consideration. – Here is Senex Bibulus Benevolens.' – The old gentleman kindly inclined his head, being too far gone for speech. – 'Here is a most learned counsel, who ought, had merit prevailed, to have been by this time Lord Chancellor, Chief Justice, Judge or Master of the Rolls, or Queen's Counsel at least. So far he is still a Junior, but we hope for his speedy advancement. – Sir, I entreat the honour of offering you a goblet of more generous drink. – Robert, Irish whisky and a lemon for this gentleman. – There' – he pointed to the ex-M.P., who again nudged his friends and grinned – 'is our legislator and statesman, the pride of his constituents, the darling of Ballynacuddery till they turned him out. – There' – he pointed to the deboshed clerk – 'is a member of a great modern profession, a gentleman with whom it is indeed a pride to sit down. He is Monsieur le Mari: Monsieur le Mari complaisant et content.'

      'I don't know what you mean,' said the gentleman indicated. 'If you want to talk Greek, talk it outside.'

      'I cannot stay,' said Athelstan, looking about the room with scant respect. 'I will call upon you at your Chambers.'

      'Do – do, my dear fellow.' Athelstan shook hands and walked away. 'Now, there's a man, gentlemen, who might have done anything