eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, and
shuddered.

The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution
as his kindly nature permitted.

'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbable
man.

'Dying?'

Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about
him. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the
morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.

'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do you
think?'

'Very possibly.'

'A remarkable man, that--a _most_ remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale's
the other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded one
of Coleridge, or Macaulay,--that kind of thing. Certainly most brilliant
talk. I can't remember what it was all about--something literary. A sort of
fantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he is
a great friend of yours?'

'Oh, we have known each other for a long time.'

'Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine--walking one of the
hospitals--that kind of thing.'

'Yes, he's at Guy's.'

To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went to
glance at the _Times_. He read the news concerning the great physician.
Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.

By midday he was at London Bridge. He crossed to the Surrey side, turned
immediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaulted
thoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station. It was like the
mouth of some monstrous cavern. Out of glaring daylight he passed into
gloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lamps
gave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most of
them occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed over
indeterminate odours of dampness. There was great concourse of drays and
waggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and above
thundered the trains. The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed of
infinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases,
packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing. A
curve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; till
midway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a sudden
appeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the sur