at this last declaration of mrs. lovett's late cook, regarding the tender adieu that he and comfort had taken of each other, sir richard blunt only smiled faintly, and slightly inclined his hand as much as to say—

"that is all very well, but i am waiting to hear your story, if you please."

"well, sir," added the cook. "you already know that i am not exactly what i seem, and that my being in that most abominable woman's employment as a cook, was one of those odd freaks of fortune, which will at times detract the due order of society, and place people in the most extraordinary positions."

"exactly."

"i am, sir, an orphan, and was brought up by an uncle with every expectation that he would be kind and liberal to me as i progressed in years; but he had taken his own course and had made up his mind as to what i was to be, how i was to look, and what i was to say and to do, without asking himself the question, if nature was good enough to coincide with him or not. the consequence was then, that directly he found me very different from what he wished me to be, he was very angry indeed, and then i put the finishing stroke to his displeasure, by committing the greatest crime that in his eyes i could commit: i fell in love."

"humph!"

"yes, sir, that was just what he said at first, when some officious friend told of it, and sending for me he said—'you must give up all love nonsense if you wish to preserve my favour,' upon which i said—'sir, did you never love?' 'that is not the question,' he said. 'it is of your follies now, not mine, that we are speaking,' and so he turned me out of the room."

"and what did you do? did you give up your love?"

"no, sir; if he had asked me to give up my life that would have been much easier to me."

"go on. what then happened?"

"why, sir, my uncle and i met very seldom, but there was one upon my track that he paid to follow me, and to report my actions to him; and that spy—oh, that i had caught him! that spy made my uncle acquainted with the fact, that i continued, despite his prohibition, to meet with the only being who ever awakened in my bosom a tender feeling; and so i was abandoned by my relative, and left penniless almost."

"but you had youth and health?"

"i had, and i resolved to make use of those advantages as best i might, by endeavouring while they lasted, frail and fluttering possessions as they are, to make a home for myself and for her whom i loved."

"the feeling, i presume, was reciprocal?"

"i thought so."

"was it only a thought, then?"

"alas! no. it was a certainty; and if an angel with wings fresh spread from heaven, and carrying upon them the soft light of an eternal world, had come to me and told me that she would be false to me, i would not have believed as much."

"and yet—"

"and yet, as you say, i have found her false. well—well, sir richard—let me proceed. the thought of her unmans me at moments, but in time i may recover from such feelings."

"most unquestionably you will; and then you will look to your present condition of mind with such a smile of incredulity, and only a faint faith in your own memory that paints you such feelings."

"i cannot say, sir, that it will not be so, but i do not think so. to proceed, however. i heard that an expedition was about to start to explore some rich islands in the southern sea. if successful, every one who took part in it would be enriched; and if unsuccessful, i could not lose my life in a better cause then in trying to make a happy home for her whom i love. i at once embraced the proposition, and became one of the adventurers, much against the inclination of the gentle girl whom i loved, and who in imagination pictured to herself a thousand dangers as involved in the enterprise."

"you went?"

"i did, and with every hope of returning in about a year an independent man. i thought little of the perils i was about to encounter in my voyage. i and the fair girl upon whom i had fixed my best hopes and affections parted, after many tears and protestations of fidelity. i kept my faith."

"and she?"

"broke hers."

"as you think—as you think. you cannot be too cautious, my young friend, in making assertions of that character."

"cautious, sir? am i to believe the evidence of my own eyes, or am i not?"

"not always," said sir richard blunt, calmly. "but i pray you go on with your narrative."

"i will. the principal object of the voyage failed entirely; but by pure accident i got possession of a string of pearls, of very great value indeed, which, provided i could get home in safety, would value in europe quite a sufficient sum to enable us to live in comfort. but the dangers of the deep assailed us. we were wrecked; and fully believing that i should not survive, i handed the pearls to a stronger comrade, and begged him to take them to her whom i had loved, to tell herself my fate, and to bid her not weep for me, since i had died happy in the thought that i had achieved something for her; and so, my friend and i parted. i was preserved and got on board a merchant vessel bound for england, where i arrived absolutely penniless. but i had a heart full of hope and joy; for if i could but find my poor girl faithful to me, i felt that we might yet be happy, whether my comrade had lived to bring to her the pearls or not."

"and you found her?"

"you shall hear, sir. i walked from southampton to london, subsisting on the road as best i could. sometimes i met with kind treatment at farm-houses, and sometimes with quite the reverse, until at length i reached london tolerably exhausted, as you may suppose, and in anything but a good plight."

"well, but you found your girl all right, i suppose?"

"no. i walked up the strand; and as some of our happiest interviews had taken place in the temple gardens, i could not resist turning aside for a moment to look at the old familiar spot, when what do you think was the sight that met my eyes?"

"i really can't say."

"i will tell you, sir. i saw her whom i loved—the young and beautiful girl for whom i had gone through so much—the being upon whose faith and constancy i would at any time have staked my life—the, as i thought, most innocent, guileless creature upon the face of the earth—"

"well, well, my good friend, what did you see this paragon of perfection about?"

"you will not believe it, sir."

"oh, yes, i shall—do not be afraid of that—i shall believe it. your narrative bears too much the stamp of truth about it for me to doubt it for a moment. i pray you to go on."

"i will then. the first object that met my eyes in that temple garden was the being whom i loved so fondly leaning upon the arm of a man in a military undress—leaning, did i say, upon his arm? she was almost upon his breast, and he was actually supporting her with one of his arms round her waist."

"well?"

"what, sir! is that all you can say to it? would you say 'well?' if you saw the only creature you ever loved in such a situation, sir? well, indeed!"

"my dear friend, do not get excited, now."

"oh, sir, it would excite a stick or a stone."

"excuse me, then, for having said 'well,' and go on with your story. what did she say to excuse herself to you?"

"'tis well, sir—of course, i cannot expect others to feel as i do upon such an occasion. i did not speak to her, sir. the sight of such perfidy was enough for me. from that moment she fell from the height i had raised her to in my imagination, and nothing she could say, and nothing i could say, would raise her up again."

"and you, then, only walked away?"

"that is all. with such a pang at my heart at the moment as i wonder did not kill me, i walked away, and left her to her own conclusions."

"then—then, my young friend, you did the very reverse of what i should have done, for you should have gone up to her, and politely taken leave of her, so as to let her know at all events that you were aware of her perfidy. i should not have been content to let her have the satisfaction of thinking i was at the bottom of the sea while she was enjoying a flirtation with her officer; but, of course, different people take different courses upon emergencies. there is one thing, however, that i wonder you did not inquire about."

"what was that?"

"your string of pearls. how could you tell but that your friend had got to london, and had actually given her the pearls with your message appended to them? i really am surprised that you did not step forward and say, 'oblige me, miss, with my pearls, if you no longer favour me with your affections!'"

"no, no. to tell the truth, i was too heart-broken at the time to care about anything in all the world; i had lost her who was to me the greatest jewel it had ever contained, and i cared for nothing else. i do believe i was a little mad, for i walked about the rest of that day, not knowing where i went to, and at last i found myself, tired, worn out, famishing, opposite to mrs. lovett's shop-window, and the steam of those abominable pies began to tempt me, so much that i went into the shop, and after some talk, i actually accepted the situation of cook to her, and there, but for you, i should have breathed my last."

"not a doubt of it. and now, my young friend, you know that i am a police-magistrate, and i dare say you have heard a great deal about my sources of information, and the odd way in which i find out things when folks think they keep them a profound secret. you have told me all your history, but you have thought proper, as you were, if you pleased, quite justified in doing, to withhold your name."

"i have done so, but i hardly know why. i will tell it to you, however, now."

"hold, i know it."

"you know it, sir?"

"yes, your name is mark ingestrie!"

"it is, indeed. but how you came to know that, sir, is to me most mysterious."

"oh, i know more than that. the name of the young lady who, you believe, played you such a trick, is johanna oakley."

mark ingestrie, for it was indeed no other, sprang to his feet, exclaiming—

"are you man or devil, that you know what i have never breathed to you?"

"don't be surprised, my young friend. i can tell you a little more than that even. the friend to whom you intrusted your string of pearls, was named francis thornhill; and his dog—let me see—oh, his large dog was called 'hector.'"

mark ingestrie trembled excessively, and sinking back in his seat, he turned very pale.

"this must be a dream," he said, "or you, sir, get your information from the spirits of the dead."

"not at all. but have you faith in my inspiration now sufficient to induce you to believe anything that i may tell you?"

"in good truth, i have; and i may well have, for after what you have already told me, your power of knowledge cannot by me be for one moment doubted."

"very well, then. in the first place, mr. francis thornhill reached london in safety."

"he did?"

"i tell you so. he arrived in london with your string of pearls in his pocket. he fully believed you were dead. indeed, he fancied that he had seen the last of you, and was quite prepared to say as much to miss johanna oakley."

"and he did? that will be some excuse for her, if she thought that i was gone."

"no, he did not. on his route he turned into the shop of sweeney todd to be shaved, and there he was murdered."

"murdered!"

"yes, most foully murdered; and the string of pearls got into the possession of that man, proving ultimately one of the means by which his frightful villainous crime came to light. the dog remained at todd's door seeking for its master, to the great discomfiture of the murderer, who made every effort within his power for its destruction, in which however he did not succeed."

"gracious heaven! my poor friend thornhill to meet with such a fate! oh god! and all on account of that fatal string of pearls! oh, thornhill—thornhill! rather would i have sunk for ever beneath the wave, than such a dreadful end should have been yours."

"the past cannot be recalled," said sir richard. "it is only with the present, and with the future that we have anything to do now. would you like to hear more?"

"more? of whom? is he not dead?—my poor friend?"

"yes, he is dead; but i can tell you more of other people. i can tell you that johanna oakley was faithful to you. i can tell you that she mourned your loss as you would wish her to mourn it, knowing how you would mourn hers. i can tell you that the gentleman's arm she was leaning upon was only a dear friend, and that the fact of her having to be supported by him at the unlucky moment when you saw this was solely owing to the deep grief she was plunged into upon your account."

"oh no—no—no!"

"i say yes. it was so, mr. ingestrie; and if you had at that moment stepped forward, you would have saved yourself much misery, and you would have saved her such heart-breaking thoughts, and such danger, as it will frighten you to listen to."