proportion, Teddy."

But young Garland had his face upon his hand, and once more he was the
miserable man who had begun brokenly to unfold the history of his shame.
The unconscious animation produced by the mere unloading of his heart,
the natural boyish slang with which his tale had been freely garnished,
had faded from his face, had died upon his lips. Once more he was a soul
in torments of despair and degradation; and yet once more did the absence
of the abject in man and manner redeem him from the depths of either. In
these moments of reaction he was pitiful, but not contemptible, much less
unlovable. Indeed, I could see the qualities that had won the heart of
Raffles as I had never seen them before. There is a native nobility not
to be destroyed by a single descent into the ignoble, an essential
honesty too bright and brilliant to be dimmed by incidental dishonour;
and both remained to the younger man, in the eyes of the other two, who
were even then determining to preserve in him all that they themselves
had lost. The thought came naturally enough to me. And yet I may well
have derived it from a face that for once was easy to read, a clear-cut
face that had never looked so sharp in profile, or, to my knowledge, half
so gentle in expression.

"And what about these Jews?" asked Raffles at length.

"There's really only one."

"Are we to guess his name?"

"No, I don't mind telling you. It's Dan Levy."

"Of course it is!" cried Raffles with a nod for me. "Our Mr. Shylock in