ghed, looked about them, even mentioned his name.
But they all seemed part of some curious pageant, of which he himself
formed not the least unreal portion. His mind wandered off on a hundred
little insignificant topics. Snatches of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ came
into his mind, half-forgotten airs of music crossed his memory, the
vision of young Gedge as he last saw him fleeted before his eyes. He
tried in vain to collect his thoughts, but they were hopelessly astray,
leaving him for the time barely conscious, and wholly uninterested in
what was taking place around him.

The van came at last, a vehicle he had often eyed curiously as it
rumbled past him in the streets. Little had he ever dreamed of riding
one day inside it.

The usual knot of loungers waited at the door of the police-court to see
the van disgorge its freight. Sometimes they had been rewarded for
their patience by the glimpse of a real murderer, or wife-kicker, or
burglar, and sometimes they had had their bit of fun over a "tough
customer," who, if he must travel at her Majesty's expense, was
determined to travel all the way, and insisted on being carried by the
arms and legs across the pavement into the tribunal of justice. There
was no such fun to be got out of Reginald as he stepped hurriedly from
the van, and with downcast eyes entered by the prisoners' door into the
court-house.

A case was already in progress, and he had to wait in a dimly-lit
underground lobby for his summons. The constable who had arrested him
was still beside him, and other groups, mostly of police, filled up the
place. But he heeded none, longing--oh! how intensely--to hear his name
called and to know the worst.

Presently there was a bustle near the door, and he knew the case
upstairs was at an end.

"Six months," some one said.

Some one else whistled softly.

"Whew--old Fogey's in one of his tantrums, then. He'd have only got
three at Dark Street."

Then some one called the name "Reginald," and the policeman near him
said "Coming." Then, turning to the prisoner, he said,--

"Fogey's on the bench to-day, and he's particular. Look alive."

Reginald found himself being hurried to the door through a lane of
officials and others towards the stairs.

"Your turn next, Grinder," he heard some one say as he passed. "Ten-
minutes will do this case."

To Reginald the stairs seemed interminable. There was a hum of voices
above, and a shuffling of feet as of pe