iers of the genuine
breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for
generations. And of such to a great extent was the population of the
place. Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the
sweet-faced Moravian lady next door--a connection of the famous La
Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon
Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient
timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported
that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James
the First.

On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court, on the
strange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population
lingering in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set
in an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.

My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I
raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of
the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for
she wore her somber black coat and hat and a black veil, and when she
saw me she came out, closing the door after her, and holding out her
hand.

"You are punctual," said she. "St. Dunstan's clock is striking now."

"Yes," I answered. "But where is your father?"

"He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't feel well enough to
come, and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful
suspense will kill him if it goes on much longer."

"Let us hope it won't," I said, but with little conviction, I fear, in
my tone.

It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and I
yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was
breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung
over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less
manifest.

We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted us
with a smiling salutation, Mr. Finneymore removed his pipe and raised
his cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then we
passed through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companion
paused and looked about her.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"The detective," she answered quietly. "It would be a pity if the poor
man should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don't see him."
And she turned away toward Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprize
to me that her s