with abundance of blankets for
covering, I hoped to bring Allen back to the shepherd's cottage.

Not to delay over details, this was managed at last, and the unhappy
fellow was under a substantial roof. But he was very ill; he became
delirious and raved of many things--talked of old college adventures, bid
recklessly for imaginary books, and practised other eccentricities of
fever.

When his fever left him he was able to converse in a way--I talking, and
he scrawling faintly with a pencil on paper. I told him how his
character had been cleared, how he had been hunted for, advertised for,
vainly enough. To the shepherds' cottages where he had lived till the
beginning of that summer, newspapers rarely came; to his den in the old
secret still, of course they never came at all.

His own story of what he had been doing at the fatal hour when so many
people saw him at the auction-rooms was brief. He had left the rooms, as
he said, at three o'clock, pondering how he might raise money for the
book on which his heart was set. His feet had taken him, half
unconsciously, to

a dismal court,
Place of Israelite resort,

where dwelt and dealt one Isaacs, from whom he had, at various times,
borrowed money on usury. The name of Isaacs was over a bell, one of many
at the door, and, when the bell was rung, the street door "opened of his
own accord," like that of the little tobacco-and-talk club which used to
exist in an alley off Pall Mall. Allen rang the bell, the outer door
opened, and, as he was standing at the door of Isaacs' chambers, before
he had knocked, _that_ portal also opened, and the office-boy, a young
Jew, slunk cautiously out. On seeing Allen, he had seemed at once
surprised and alarmed. Allen asked if his master was in; the lad
answered "No" in a hesitating way; but on second thoughts, averred that
Isaacs "would be back immediately," and requested Allen to go in and
wait. He did so, but Isaacs never came, and Allen fell asleep. He had a
very distinct and singular dream, he said, of being in Messrs. Blocksy's
rooms, of handling the Longepierre, and of seeing Wentworth there, and
Lord Tarras. When he wakened he was very cold, and, of course, it was
pitch dark. He did not remember where he was; he lit a match and a
candle on the chimney-piece. Then slowly his memory came back to him,
and not only his memory, but his consciousness of what he had wholly
forgotten--namely, that this was Saturday, the