Burgo Fitzgerald On the night before Christmas Eve two men were sitting together in George Vavasor's rooms in Cecil Street.

It was past twelve o'clock, and they were both smoking; there were square bottles on the table containing spirits, with hot water and cold water in jugs, and one of the two men was using, and had been using, these materials for enjoyment.

Vavasor had not been drinking, nor did it appear as though he intended to begin.

There was a little weak brandy and water in a glass by his side, but there it had remained untouched for the last twenty minutes.

His companion, however, had twice in that time replenished his beaker, and was now puffing out the smoke of his pipe with the fury of a steamer's funnel when she has not yet burned the black off her last instalment of fresh coals.