"Come, have another hand, Burgoyne." "I'll have my revenge to-morrow, old fellow," I replied. "Why not to-night?" "It's past two, and I've a long walk home, remember." "Very well; as you wish." My friend, Robert Nugent, a journalist, was young man, tall and dark, twenty-seven at the outside, with a pleasant, smiling face. His wavy hair, worn rather long, and negligence of attire gave him a dash of the genial good-for-nothing.