nknown corner and looked up the line--then, after another five minutes
of blankness, there came a hoarse throbbing in the distance, a bell rang,
and the up-train panted into the station. It was a slow train, unluckily
for Gilbert's impatience, which stopped everywhere, and the journey to
London took him over an hour. It was past nine when a hansom drove him
into Coleman-street, a dull unfrequented-looking thoroughfare between
Tottenham-court-road and Gower-street, overshadowed a little by the
adjacent gloom of the University Hospital, and altogether a low-spirited
street.

Gilbert looked up eagerly at the windows of Number 14, expecting to see
lights shining, and some visible sign of rejoicing, even upon the house
front; but there was nothing. Either the shutters were shut, or there was
no light within, for the windows were blank and dark. It was a slight
thing, but enough to intensify that shapeless foreboding against which he
had been struggling throughout his journey.

"You must have come to the wrong house," he said to the cabman as he got
out.

"No, sir, this is 14."

Yes, it was the right number. Gilbert read it on the door; and yet it
could scarcely be the right house; for tied to the door-handle was a
placard with "Apartments" engraved upon it, and this house would hardly
be large enough to accommodate other lodgers besides Mr. Nowell and his
daughter. Yet there is no knowing the capabilities of a London
lodging-house in an obscure quarter, and there might be some vacant
garret in the roof, or some dreary two-pair back, dignified by the name
of "apartments." Gilbert gave a loud hurried knock. There was a delay
which seemed to him interminable, then a hasty shuffling of slipshod feet
upon the basement stairs, then the glimmer of a light through the
keyhole, the removal of a chain, and at last the opening of the door. It
was opened by a young person with her hair dressed in the prevailing
fashion, and an air of some gentility, which clashed a little with a
certain slatternliness that pervaded her attire. She was rather a pretty
girl, but had the faded London look of late hours, and precocious cares,
instead of the fresh bloom and girlish brightness which should have
belonged to her.

"Did you please to wish to see the apartments, sir?" she asked politely.

"No; I want to see Mr. and Mrs.--the lady and gentleman who are lodging
here."

He scarcely knew under what name he ought to ask for Marian. It seemed