d at him mournfully, with raised eyebrows. There was just a
hint of expostulation in his raised eyebrows, and in the expression of
his voice.

'You see, sir,' he said, waving his white hands--' you see for yourself,
there's nothing here.'

Bommaney walked to a chair, and, sitting down there, lifted up his voice
and wept. 'I've been an honest man, by God! all my life long; and now
I'm not merely ruined, but I shall be taken for a thief.' He cried
bitterly after this outburst, with his head between his hands. His hat
fell off, and his walking-stick tumbled noisily to the floor. Mr. Barter
picked them up, and, having set them on the table, looked at the shaking
shoulders, and listened to the ruined man's sobs and wailings. It was a
pity--of course it was a pity--but young Mr. Barter really did not see
how it was in his power to help it.

III

On a chill spring evening the sunset over London gave a brief radiance
of colour to the dull gray roof and smoke-stained chimneys of many
thoroughfares. Shadows thickened in the eastern skies as if fold after
fold of finest crape were drawn over the field of watery and opalescent
light the fallen sun had left behind it. In one great thoroughfare
running east and west the sky-line of the houses stood distinct, and
bathed in light of many colours; whilst down below there was a wall of
shadow. Two parallel walls of shadow rose from a shadowy level, and the
dusk had a thousand indistinguishable voices.

The shadowy lines became accented by twin rows of flickering fire, the
rear jets seen with a blurred halo of mist round each of them, the halo
crawling feebly within itself, tormented by a feeble wind. The long
vista of pavement became chequered like a chessboard, with patches of
light from shop windows. Gable Inn, staring at the growing darkness with
a single fiery eye, looked like a Rip Van Winkle. It had been old when
Chaucer and the knights and ladies of whom he sang were young; and
its hoary stunted angles and squat chimney cowls had the grave and
impassive aspect proper to great age. It has stood there now for over
seven hundred years hoarding a growing store of secrets. It is roughly
picturesque in every detail, and its every chamber is a triumph of
narrowness, obscurity, and inconvenience.

In the quadrangle the shadows climbed the sturdy walls as if they were
an exhalation from the paving-stones. The dim staircase sent down all
manner of muffled and echoing voices. Fo