tention of taking care. On the contrary, he deliberately raised himself upon the broad stone ledge until he was standing bolt upright.

Maxwell was an impulsive man who seldom stopped to think before interfering if he thought some one else was being guilty of an act of folly. The man could hardly be sober to behave in that eccentric manner. If he fell into the river he might have some difficulty in getting out again. Maxwell called out to him to be careful and at the same time quickened his pace.

His warning, however, had precisely the opposite effect to that which he had intended. The man on the parapet seeing him approach turned at once to the river, threw up his hands and jumped in. It was a clear case of attempted suicide and that under the very shadow of New Scotland Yard!

A less impulsive man might have crossed over to that building, rung the bell and called the attention of its occupants to the fact that an unknown man was at that moment in the act of committing a felony by drowning himself in front of their windows. Maxwell, however, was of more heroic stuff. Throwing down his hat and overcoat he vaulted on to the parapet and dived in after him.

Fortunately the moon shone brightly and Maxwell was a good swimmer.

The tide was running out rapidly, but this only carried the would-be suicide in his direction and in a moment Maxwell had him firmly in his grip. The man struggled savagely with his rescuer, but Maxwell had practised saving life in swimming-baths and was quite equal to tackling him.

The only question was how to get him out of the water. The walls of the Embankment rose high and slippery on his left. He could not have scaled them unencumbered, much less with another man in his arms.

He decided, therefore, to drift with

the current till they both reached Charing Cross steps. There he scrambled, not without difficulty, on to the steamboat pier, hauled the other after him and proceeded to wring out his clothes.

It is possible that Maxwell had expected some gratitude from the man whom he had saved from drowning. If so, he was doomed to disappointment. The other sat in a heap on the wooden floor of the pier without attempting to dry himself and cursed him bitterly.

"D- you!" he growled. "Why did you interfere? I might have been out of it all by this time if it wasn't for you."

If there was one accusation which made Maxwell angry it was a charge of "interfering." Like most impulsive people he was apt to step in rather heedlessly sometimes into other people's affairs. He had stopped more than one street fight with the result of being reviled impartially by both combatants and ultimately moved on by the police. The man's words, therefore, annoyed him excessively.

"Confound you!" he said. "I've saved your life and ruined a suit of clotheswhat more do you want? Get up and don't stay grumbling there."

"What more do I want!" said the other, jumping to his feet-rage lent him an agility which even his burden of wet clothes could not subdue "What more do I want! Hear him, this toff with his airs and his fine clothes, who thrusts his blarsted self in the way when a poor man wants to drown himself and expects him to say "Thank you.' You're a dashed interfering swaggering puppy, that's what you are, and just you remember it."

Maxwell's impulse was to knock the man down. But for the moment he was inclined to distrust his impulses. Besides, there is a certain absurdity in punching a man's head just after you

"I'm sorry if my interference"-he gave the word a fine stress-"annoys you. I won't repeat it. If you want to drown yourself, do so now. I won't stop you. The river's there still."

The man looked at the water for a moment as if he would take him at his word. Then he turned away.

"Curse you," he said, "I can't, and you know I can't. I tried once. I braced myself to it. And you came along and stopped me. My nerve's gone now. I can't."

"You're afraid," said Maxwell contemptuously, stooping to wring out a trouser leg.

"Yes," said the other, "I'm afraid. Who's to blame me? It isn't everybody as dares to drown himself once. Twice in one night is too much for any man."

"Then perhaps we'd better go," said Maxwell. "If you'll come with me I'll give you something to keep out the cold."

"It's the least you can do," said the other sulkily.

Maxwell shrugged his shoulders. The man's ingratitude disgusted him. They made their way up the steps to the Embankment, and Maxwell hailed a hansom. The driver crossed over and contemplated them with rather sarcastic astonishment as he drew up at the kerb. His stare irritated Maxwell, who probably did not fully realize what an absurd spectacle he presented, standing on the pavement of the Embankment dripping with moisture with no hat on his head.

"What the devil are you looking at?" he said savagely.

"No offence, sir," said the man. "Been in the water?"

"Yes," said Maxwell, shortly. "Drive to 58 St. James's Street," and he motioned the other to enter the cab. "Not so fast," said the driver.

"I

can't take you like that. What about my keb?"

"Hang your cab!" answered Maxwell. "Keep your horse still."

"That's all very fine, Governor, but what are you going to pay me for this job?"

"I'll give you half a sovereign," said Maxwell.

"And spoil my cushions! Not if I know it," answered the cabby, gathering up his reins as if to drive away. "Make it a sovereign, Gov'nor, or I'm off."

"All right," said Maxwell, who observed a constable approaching and wished above all things to avoid being noticed. He did not desire to figure in the police reports as having jumped into the river at midnight to save a man from drowning. It would only confirm his friends' impression that "Maxwell was always interfering."

They got into the cab and he told the driver to go by Westminster. "I may as well pick up my hat and overcoat," he thought, reflecting that the evening under any circumstances was likely to prove a sufficiently costly one without the loss of those garments.

As they approached New Scotland Yard he stopped the cab and looked out at the pavement, but neither coat nor hat was to be seen.

"Just like my luck," he reflected. "I can't even put down an overcoat for ten minutes without some dishonest fellow making off with it."

He told the man to drive on. He was beginning to feel cold and numb. He had attempted with fair success to wring the moisture out of his clothes before getting into the cab, but his companion had made no such effort and water seemed to ooze from him at every pore.

"You're confoundedly wet," he grumbled, but the other remained obstinately silent.

However, St. James's Street was soon reached. Maxwell jumped out, gave the cabman his sovereign and fumbled for his latch key. His companion stood by him on the pavement apparently quite indifferent to his situation. Exhaustion seemed to have replaced ill-temper and he no longer looked even sullen. When the door opened he followed Maxwell upstairs without curiosity until he found himself in his host's chambers.

There was no fire in the grate, but there were spirits and glasses on the table and the dull eyes of the stranger lighted up for a moment as he saw them. Maxwell mixed him a strong glass of whisky and water. "Drink that," he said, and turned to mix another for himself."

The man took it. "Here's luck!" he said bitterly, and drank the toast almost at a gulp. Then he sat down heavily in Maxwell's best arm-chair. "What the devil are you doing?" said Maxwell. "Get out of that chair. You're wet through."

"Don't mind me, Governor," replied the other with great magnanimity. "Wet won't hurt me."

"No, but it'll hurt my chair," answered Maxwell angrily. "Get up. Have some more whisky?" he added as the man showed no sign of moving.

The other rose slowly. "I don't mind if I do," he said thoughtfully, and did so.

"Where are you going to sleep tonight?" asked his host.

The other turned a dull eye on him. "I don't know," he said. "Here, I suppose."

"Oh no, you're not," answered Maxwell firmly. The thought of this damp vagrant, who had already ruined an arm-chair, transferring his ravages to the sofa made him firm.

"On the door-step, then," returned the other. But this did not suit Maxwell any better. The presence of a half

drowned man on a door-step in St. James's Street at one o'clock in the morning would require explanation. The police would make inquiries and the result would be those very paragraphs in the papers which Maxwell wished to avoid. Besides, he was a kind-hearted man and did not wish the man to die of cold in the street.

"You'd better be off and change your clothes at once," he said.

"I have no clothes," said the man, "except these." Maxwell sighed.

"I suppose I must find you some," he said resignedly. "You can't go about like that. You'd attract attention."

The man smiled grimly. "It ain't my fault-" he began. But Maxwell, who knew what he was going to say, cut him short by going into his bedroom and opening his wardrobe.

The problem of deciding which of his many suits of clothes he was to sacrifice cost him a keener pang than almost anything else on this unfortunate evening. There they lay on their trays, carefully selected by himself and no less carefully folded by his man. Finally despairing of finding any with which he could part without sorrow, he seized a suit at random and carried it into the sitting-room, together with a tennis shirt, a pair of socks, a pair of shoes and a rough bath-towel.

"Stick these on," he said ungraciously. "You'd better rub yourself well first if you don't want to catch your death." And he threw the towel to him.

The man grinned. "I don't mind about death," he said.

"Don't talk nonsense," said Maxwell irritably, "and be quick with those clothes."

Returning to his bedroom he threw off his own wet things, reappearing a few minutes later in a smoking-suit. When he returned he found his visitor transformed. A heap of sodden garments lay on the carpet, while their

owner, disguised in a complete suit by a Bond Street tailor, looked if possible more grotesque than before.

Maxwell lit a cigarette and eyed regretfully the suit he would never see again.

were getting

"Isn't it time you home?" he said at last as his visitor still showed no signs of moving.

"I have no home," said the man. "But you must live somewhere," said Maxwell sharply. "Where did you sleep last night?"

"On the Embankment," replied the other.

Maxwell shuddered. He felt in his pockets, to which he had transferred such small change as the night's adventure had left him. The result of the search was a half-sovereign and a few shillings.

"Here," he said, "you can get a night's lodging with this and live for a day or two till you get work."

The man took the money without enthusiasm and counted it. "Can't do much with eighteen bob," was the only comment he made.

"You're an ungrateful scoundrel," said Maxwell, losing his temper.

"I ain't got much to be grateful for, goodness knows," replied the other. "I chuck myself into the river to drown and be out of every one's way. You come along and pull me out and now you want to put me off with eighteen shillings! If you have a fancy for saving folk's lives, I think you ought to pay for it."

There was something in the man's view which appealed to Maxwell as reasonable in spite of his irritation. He turned to his writing-table and took a cheque-book from a drawer. "What's your name?" he asked shortly.

"John Bellows," answered the other, looking at him furtively and stretching out a hand towards the whisky decanter.

"No, you can't have any more whisky," said Maxwell, noticing the gesture. "You've had enough to keep you from cold. If you have more you won't be able to find your way and then you'll get into trouble with the police."

He filled in a cheque for £10, blotted it and handed it to Bellows.

"Here's something to start you in life again. Don't try and drown yourself or any tomfoolery of that kind in future. And if you get into difficulties don't come to me. Good-night."

The man took the cheque, examined it dispassionately and thrust it in his pocket. Then he went towards the door. "Good-night, governor," he said.

Maxwell went downstairs with him and showed him out. He noticed with some bitterness that the man made no attempt to thank him. But then if a man does not thank you for saving his life he can hardly be expected to do so for £10. As he re-entered his room a sick feeling of disgust at the whole incident seized poor Maxwell. There lay the man's clothes in a heap on the carpet, which they were rapidly converting into a marsh. His best arm-chair was a sodden ruin. But the man himself was gone. That was one blessing. It was true that he left Maxwell the poorer by two suits of clothes, an overcoat, about eleven pounds in money and a certain amount of excellent whisky, but he had gone at last and his preserver resolved to take particular care never to see him again.

But if Maxwell imagined that he had heard the last of his rash act of philanthropy he was grievously mistaken. Two days afterwards the following advertisement appeared in the "Personal" column of the Times:

FOUND, on the Thames Embankment at midnight, an overcoat, marked Richard Maxwell. Owner may have it on calling at 8 Great College Street, Westminster, and paying the cost of

this advertisement.

The overcoat was spoiled to Maxwell by the recollection of the adventure it had shared with him and he never wished to see it again. So he decided to pay no attention to the advertisement. The finder might sell the coat and reimburse himself for his trouble out of the proceeds. After coming to this decision he dismissed the matter from his mind and went to luncheon at his club.

He had not sat down to his meal five minutes before a friend came up. "Hullo! Maxwell," he said. "Is it your overcoat that was found on the Embankment? It's advertised in the Times this morning?"

"Yes," said Maxwell.

"How very interesting!" said the other cheerfully. "Tell me, do you usually leave your clothes about on the Embankment in the middle of the night?"

"No," answered Maxwell.

"My dear fellow," said the other laughing, "do be more communicative. Don't make a mystery of it. It's absurd to make mysteries. They're always found out."

"There is no mystery," said Maxwell peevishly. "There was a fellow trying to drown himself and I pulled him out, that's all."

His friend laughed with immense relish. "How like you Maxwell!" he said. "There never was such a chap for interfering."

Interfering! The one word which Maxwell could not bear. "Confound you!" he said savagely. "Don't stand giggling there."

Ten minutes later another man came up. "I say, Maxwell," he said, "what about that overcoat? Was it you who were trying to drown yourself or the other fellow?"

"What do you want to know for?" asked Maxwell sulkily.

"Simpson and I have a bet on about it. I said it was the other fellow.

You're such a chap to interfere, you know."

"Of course," said Maxwell with bitter irony. "Well, if it's any satisfaction to you to know, it was the other fellow."

For two days Maxwell was continually haunted by the spectre of this overcoat. All sorts of wonderful theories were started as to what he was doing on the Embankment at midnight and he was perpetually being appealed to at the club, at the theatre, in the street, to say whether they were true or not. The air seemed thick with wagers on the subject among his particular set till Maxwell began to wonder whether he would not find his overcoat figuring in "The Betting" in the Sportsman. On the third day the advertisement appeared a second time in the Times.

If the story was to be allowed to die -and Maxwell wished it to do so with all possible expedition-it was impossi ble to allow the wretched coat to continue to be advertised at intervals in the newspapers. He therefore told his servant to go down to Westminster to claim it and pay whatever expenses had been incurred. As soon as the man brought it back he told him to throw it away.

But the reappearance of the adver tisement revived the interest of his friends in the garment, and for the next few days their inquiries were once more incessant. Maxwell raged under the infliction, but this of course only made the temptation to chaff him greater.

At last, however, this joke, like other jokes, wore itself out and he had really begun to think the whole Bellows incident was closed, when one morning a couple of months later, just as he had finished his leisurely breakfast, his servant announced a person to see him on business.

"Did he say what his business was?" asked Maxwell.