at the top of a lonely corner house overlooking the river. The
name, MR. ALFRED BECKWITH, was painted on the outer door. On the
door opposite, on the same landing, the name MR. JULIUS SLINKTON.
The doors of both sets of chambers stood open, so that anything
said aloud in one set could be heard in the other.

I had never been in those chambers before. They were dismal,
close, unwholesome, and oppressive; the furniture, originally good,
and not yet old, was faded and dirty, - the rooms were in great
disorder; there was a strong prevailing smell of opium, brandy, and
tobacco; the grate and fire-irons were splashed all over with
unsightly blotches of rust; and on a sofa by the fire, in the room
where breakfast had been prepared, lay the host, Mr. Beckwith, a
man with all the appearances of the worst kind of drunkard, very
far advanced upon his shameful way to death.

'Slinkton is not come yet,' said this creature, staggering up when
I went in; 'I'll call him. - Halloa! Julius Caesar! Come and
drink!' As he hoarsely roared this out, he beat the poker and
tongs together in a mad way, as if that were his usual manner of
summoning his associate.

The voice of Mr. Slinkton was heard through the clatter from the
opposite side of the staircase, and he came in. He had not
expected the pleasure of meeting me. I have seen several artful
men brought to a stand, but I never saw a man so aghast as he was
when his eyes rested on mine.

'Julius Caesar,' cried Beckwith, staggering between us, 'Mist'
Sampson! Mist' Sampson, Julius Caesar! Julius, Mist' Sampson, is