prise of any one who
should have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificent
plane-trees, golden in the August sunshine--one of the abrupt contrasts
which are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those who
wander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave of
commerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses--some with quaint
tumbling roofs--and byways little frequented.

The planes grow at the back of Guy's Hospital, and close by is a short
narrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond. It consists for the most
part of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medical
students. At one of these houses Harvey Munden plied the knocker.

He was answered by a trim, rather pert-looking girl, who smiled familiarly.

'Mr. Shergold isn't in, sir,' she said at once, anticipating his question.
'But he _will_ be very soon. Will you step in and wait?'

'I think I will.'

As one who knew the house, he went upstairs, and entered a sitting-room on
the first floor. The girl followed him.

'I haven't had time to clear away the breakfast things,' she said, speaking
rapidly and with an air. 'Mr. Shergold was late this mornin'; he didn't get
up till nearly ten, an' then he sat writin' letters. Did he know as you was
comin', sir?'

'No; I looked in on the chance of finding him, or learning where he was.'

'I'm sure he'll be in about half-past twelve, 'cause he said to me as he
was only goin' to get a breath of air. He hasn't nothing to do at the
'ospital just now.'

'Has he talked of going away?'

'Going away?' The girl repeated the words sharply, and examined the
speaker's face. 'Oh, he won't be goin' away just yet, I think.'

Munden returned her look with a certain curiosity, and watched her as she
began to clink together the things upon the table. Obviously she esteemed
herself a person of some importance. Her figure was not bad, and her
features had the trivial prettiness so commonly seen in London girls of the
lower orders,--the kind of prettiness which ultimately loses itself in fat
and chronic perspiration. Her complexion already began to show a tendency
to muddiness, and when her lips parted, they showed decay of teeth. In
dress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaborate
arrangement; she had dirty hands.

Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden had
no leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the gi