Times were hard with Septimus Hardon, and too often he was quite in despair. There was that difficult problem before him, always waiting to be solved, and he not able to solve it: given so many mouths to feed, how to do it. It was a problem that many a better man had failed over, and those who knew him, while commiserating, saw how weak and helpless and unfitted he was for the task. But times might have been worse; for he learned now that even in the lowest depths of poverty, whatever may have been written to the contrary, there are such people as friends, any one of whom, in his genuine truth of heart, is worth a score of the parasites who cling to a man in the hours of his prosperity. Old Matthew Space, oddly as his acquaintanceship had begun, was such a friend; and so, to a certain extent, was Mr Sterne; but there was, and he knew it too, a tinge of selfishness in the latter’s friendship towards Septimus Hardon, and though he battled with it, and thought again and again that he had beaten it down, there it still was in spite of all. The mistrust he had felt for old Matt had somewhat softened down, after seeing his disinterested attention towards the Hardon family; while the curate argued, upon seeing the old man with Septimus Hardon’s child, that no man could be bad at heart who had so true a love for innocence as embodied in a child, almost fresh and pure from the hands of its Maker. But somehow, he and Matt never seemed to get a jot nearer to each other. Difference of position had nothing to do with it, for Arthur Sterne was ready to extend the hand of friendship to the humblest dweller in the court, and aid and teach to the best of his ability. But Matt said he daresay it was all right, but somehow he was one who did not like to be patronised; while as to being taught, the clay had grown too stiff, and hard, and cracked, to submit to the moulding of the potter’s hands. “And you see, sir, to be able to do anything with me, you must moisten my clay with beer, which softens me a little; and it isn’t likely as a clergyman is going to supply me with my malt liquor, and all for the sake of giving me a few lessons. I respect him, sir, and always shall, but we don’t seem the sort to mix.” This to Septimus Hardon.

Mr Sterne, finding his advances of no avail, ceased to make any; and soon he and old Matt were upon a friendly neutral ground, while the extent of their communications was a bow upon either side. Their visits to the first-floor in Bennett’s-rents were frequent, and in time they so arranged their calls that they should not clash; while, for further convenience, by a tacit understanding, it was come curate, go printer; and vice versâ.

“I much wish you had chosen some better neighbourhood,” said Mr Sterne one day, “for your wife and child’s sake; and this is not a nice place for Miss Grey.”

Lucy looked up in the curate’s subdued face with a grateful smile; and then there was a faint blush upon her cheek as she looked down again.

“No, it’s not a nice place – not at all nice,” said Septimus drearily; “but then it seemed right in the thick of the law-writing, which I’m trying to acquire; but it’s very hard work – it’s so crooked and crabbed and hard to make out. One ought to have begun young. I’ve been trying for weeks now; but they all find fault with my hand.”

“It is too good – too flowing and clear,” said the curate, looking at some sheets of foolscap Septimus laid before him. “But patience, and you will do it. Keep your elbow more away from your side – so.” And he leaned over the paper, and wrote a couple of lines so rapidly, and exactly in the style required, that Septimus looked on in admiration, but only to sigh directly after for his own want of skill.

“Never mind,” he said, “I shall manage it some day;” and he smiled cheerfully, for he had just caught sight of the worn face of his wife. “’Tis a bad neighbourhood this, sir,” he said, to change the conversation; “but it’s cheap for London, I suppose.”

“Doubtless – doubtless,” said the curate; “but it is a sad place; and I know it well, as you may easily suppose. And now, Mr Hardon,” he said as he rose to leave, “do not let me be so great a stranger to you. Ask my advice on matters, and take me into your counsels at all times. Come; you promise?”

Septimus Hardon did not speak, but wrung the curate’s hand; and in the future he did precisely what might have been expected of him – let matters get from bad to worse, and never once spoke to the visitor upon his dreary prospects – prospects that from delicacy the curate forbore to inquire into, while to old Matt, Septimus was openness itself.

One day Septimus sat gnawing his nails in despair, for some law-copying that he had hoped would bring him in a few shillings had been thrown back upon his hands, with some very sharp language from the keen, business-like law-stationer who, after many solicitations, had employed him.

“Don’t grieve, papa,” whispered Lucy, looking up from the paid warehouse needlework she was employed upon – “don’t grieve, papa, they will pay me for this when I take it home;” and the words were spoken in a sweet soothing strain that comforted the poor fellow in his trouble.

“He said I must be a fool to undertake work I could not perform,” said Septimus lugubriously; “and I suppose I must be.”

“Don’t, don’t talk so, dear,” whispered Lucy, glancing uneasily at the door of the back-room. “Don’t let her hear you.”

“Well, I won’t,” said Septimus, rousing up and crossing the room to kiss the soft cheek held up so lovingly to him – “I won’t, pet Lucy; and I’ll try again, that I will;” and he returned to his seat.

“Yes, do; yes, do!” cried Lucy, with smiles and tears at one and the same time. “Don’t mind what they said; you are so clever, you must succeed.”

Septimus screwed up his face, but Lucy shook her head at him, still busily stitching, while, with his head resting upon his hand, Septimus gazed on that budding figure before him, growing fast into the similitude of the woman who had first taught him that he had a heart; but she looked up again, and Septimus turned to his papers.

“Were there many mistakes, dear?” said Lucy.

“Well, not so many,” said Septimus; “only the writing I copied from was so bad; and I’ve put in the contractions where I ought not, and altered them where they should have stayed; and you see, my child, I don’t know how it is, but I do get so wild in my spelling. I know when the worst of it was, it was when Tom would sit on my knee and put his fingers in the ink-bottle; and that is distracting, you know, when one copies crabbed handwriting. But the worst fault was what I didn’t see – and how I came to put it in, I’m sure I don’t know, but it was a part of that line of Goldsmith’s, ‘But times are altered, trade’s unfeeling train.’ I don’t know how it came there, only that it was there, and I must have written it when I was half-asleep. Let me see, it was – ah, yes, here it is, in folio 15, and I began that at half-past two this morning. I couldn’t say anything, you know, my child, could I? for of course it didn’t look well in amongst a lot about a man’s executors and administrators, and all that sort of thing. It’s a bad job, ain’t it?”

Poor Lucy looked up at the wretchedly-doleful face before her, hardly knowing whether to smile or be serious; and then, in spite of the trouble they were in, and perhaps from the fact of tears being so near akin to smiles, they both laughed merrily over the disaster; and Septimus set to work to try and remedy the wrong doings, by rewriting several of the sheets – a task he was busily engaged upon when old Matt came with his tap at the door and entered.

“And how’s Mrs Hardon, sir?” said Matt respectfully.

A faint voice responded from the back-room, for Mrs Septimus spent much of her time in a reclining position.

“Busy as ever, miss, I see,” said Matt; “and bright as a rose.”

Lucy, bright as a rose truly, but only as the pale white blossom that shows the faintest tinge of pink, looked up from the hard sewing which made sore her little fingers, and smiled upon the old man.

“And how’s the writing, sir?” said Matt.

“No good – no good, Matt,” said Septimus wearily. “I’m out of my element, and shall never do any good at it, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t have nothing to do with it, then, sir; come and finger the types again. I’ve no opinion of copying, only as a combination of law-stationers to do honest printers out of their work. Try setting again, sir, and I’ll give you grass first time I get a chance.”

“Grass!” said Septimus absently.

“Well, yes, sir; put you on a job instead of doing it myself; first chance I have.”

Septimus shook his head, went and thrust some sheets of paper into the fire, and then walked to the window, where his apathetic air passed off for an instant, as he seemed to recognise the face of a woman who passed quickly from the opposite house, and then hurriedly made her way out of the court.

“Strange!” muttered Septimus to himself; “but there, it couldn’t be her.”

“And where’s my little di’mond?” said Matt to Lucy.

“Asleep by mamma,” replied Lucy.

“Bless him! I’ve brought him a steam-ingin,” said Matt, bringing a toy-model, with a glorious display of cotton-wool steam, out of his pocket; “and I don’t know what this here’s meant for,” he continued, drawing a wooden quadruped from the other pocket. “Stands well, don’t he, miss? Wonder what it’s meant for! ’Tain’t a horse, nor a halligator, nor a elephant – can’t be a elephant, you know, because they haven’t got these Berlin-wool-looking sides; no, nor it ain’t no trunk neither. Let’s call it a hippopotamus, and see how he’ll tie his pretty little tongue in a knot, bless him! a-trying to say it when he wakes. You’ll tell him Uncle Matt brought ’em, won’t you, miss?” he said, holding them behind his back.

Lucy nodded, while Matt blew out and arranged the cotton-wool steam as carefully as if it was a matter of the greatest importance, or a jewel for a queen; and who shall say that the old printer’s task was not of as great importance, and that the pleasure of the child is not of equal value with that of the greatest potentate that ever ruled; while as to the amount of enjoyment derived, there can be no doubt.

“And what time is the work to go home, miss?” said Matt, after contriving with great difficulty to make the wild quadruped use his four supports in the way intended by his manufacturer – the beast’s idea being that its nose was the proper front rest for its body, and that by rights it was a tripod.

“I’m afraid I shall not be ready before eight,” said Lucy, bending to her task.

“I’ll be here to the moment, brushed up and smart,” said the old man. “Why, how proud you ought to be of having such a bodyguard, Miss Lucy!”

The girl looked up and smiled, half sadly, at the old man as she held out her hand, which he took in his own for a moment, kissed respectfully, and then he shuffled from the room.

Ten minutes after, old Matt’s step was again heard upon the stairs, and he directly after appeared with a pot of porter in one hand, and something tied up in a cotton handkerchief in the other; while, as he entered, he glanced stealthily from face to face to see what effect his proceedings would have before he spoke.

“You see, Mr Hardon, sir, it’s a busy morning with me, and as I’m so far from my lodging – what a fib!” he thought to himself – “I thought I’d ask the favour of being allowed to have a bite here.”

Of course there was no objection raised, and the old man’s roast potatoes were soon warming, while Lucy left her work to frizzle the large portion of prime steak over the fire.

“No, no, miss; none of that,” said Matt, taking the fork out of Lucy’s hand; “I’ve cooked hundreds of bits of steak, miss, and I’m too particular to trust you; and, besides, you’ll be keeping me waiting to-night when it’s time the work was taken home; and my time’s the only valuable possession I’m worth.”

Here old Matt directed a very knowing wink at Septimus Hardon; but he was deep in thought, with his head resting upon his hand. However, Lucy understood the old man’s quaint kindness, and resumed her work; but there was a tear twinkling in her eye.

“Lord, Miss Lucy,” said Matt, turning the steak upon the gridiron, and distributing a most appetising odour through the room, where more than once of late hunger had sat gaunt and staring, – “Lord, Miss Lucy, how I should like to see you with one of those new machines; stitch away they do, and the work comes running out by the yard.”

Lucy sighed, and pressed a sore finger to her rosy lips.

“’Spose I may put the cloth on, miss, mayn’t I?” said Matt, who was quite at home in the place.

Lucy nodded; and the old man soon had the cloth spread, and the steak done; when, pulling a long face, he groaned heavily.

“There!” he exclaimed, “that’s always the way. Who’d be troubled with a complaint? Thought I could just pick a bit; but now it’s all nice and ready, and as prime as can be, I’m done. Such a steak as that is, too, juicy and done to a twist, and the very best cut out of the whole beast. But there, don’t let it be spoiled, miss, please;” and before anyone could stay him the old man was shuffling down the stairs, chuckling to himself as he made his way into the court, while Septimus, stung to the heart by his poverty, and overcome by the old man’s kindness, left his chair, and began to pace the room wringing his hands.

“O, that it should have come to this! O, that it should have come to this!” he groaned; but the next moment Mrs Septimus had forgotten her own trouble, and was weeping upon his breast, while Lucy had work enough to pacify the frightened child.

“Don’t, don’t, darling,” whispered Mrs Septimus in a supplicating voice. “I know it is all my fault, and I’m thinking of it constantly; but don’t let me think that you reproach me, or it will kill me outright.”

There was such agony of spirit in Mrs Hardon’s words that Septimus forgot his own wounded pride and misery by turn, in busily trying to soothe the poor invalid, who gladly took her seat at the table, while Septimus, with a smile upon his countenance, kept on vowing how hopeful he would be, as, casting pride to the winds, he distributed old Matt’s much-needed steak, not hesitating to partake himself of the old man’s bounty.

A gleam of hopeful sunshine seemed to have darted into the room that afternoon as Septimus sat busily writing, and the sharp click of needle upon thimble could be heard from the back-room, where Mrs Septimus was busy helping Lucy, so that the work might be finished in time, though every now and then it fell to someone’s lot to amuse the little boy, who, a very spoiled tyrant, seemed bent upon being as capricious and unreasonable as children can be at times. But ever and again the wrinkles would deepen upon Septimus Hardon’s forehead, and he would lay down his pen, in dread lest he should include some of his busy thoughts in his copying. What should he do to better his condition? Time back it had seemed so easy a task, that of keeping his wife and children; but, put to the proof, how difficult. Some that he saw were almost without trouble; wealth poured in upon them in return for their bright thoughts. And why should not he be rich when schemes in plenty came flashing to his brain? There were scores of fortunes to be made had he but capital – that golden key that should open the treasure-house; but he was poor – a beggar, as he told himself again and again, when, to drive away the thoughts, he stooped over his copying, but only to lay it aside once more and sigh.

Old Matt came again that evening, vowing that he was much better, for he had been trying a favourite remedy of his – abstinence. “A first-rate thing, sir, for indigestion,” said Matt; “rather lowering, certainly, but surprisingly efficacious as a medicine, while it costs nothing, and saves at the same time. A good walk helps, too, but then that requires what the shoe-shops call a pair of ‘stout walking,’ and my old feet want an easy style of boot. I wouldn’t use a new boot on any consideration,” said Matt, stretching out a dilapidated and crushed Wellington, polished to the highest pitch of lustre by a scarlet-coated brigadier. “I study comfort, sir; ease before appearances.”

Lucy was soon ready, and then, with a couple of inches added to his stature, the old man proudly escorted her through court, lane, and street, to the warehouse; and then patiently waited till her business was transacted. Many a glance was directed at the strangely-assorted couple, but he would have been a bold man who would have insulted the poor girl, who leaned so trustingly upon the old printer’s arm till they reached the court, where he allowed her to go first, stopping and scratching his cheek viciously as he saw Lucy tremblingly hold out her hand to a woman who hurriedly passed from the house opposite that occupied by Septimus. They seemed to have met before; but old Matt looked vexed and undecided. Once he closed up, but a glance from Lucy sent him back, when he passed the rest of his time in returning with interest the bold, inquisitive stare of Mr William Jarker, who stood with a couple of friends in the entrance of the court, watching Lucy and the stranger with some degree of interest, till Mr Jarker caught Matt’s eye, when he turned to his companions, said something, and they walked off together, Matt’s quick ear catching the words, “9:30,” and a click or two as if one of the men carried tools in the pocket of his shooting-jacket.

Directly after, the stranger passed old Matt with a quiet appealing look, to which he replied with a nod of a very undecided description, half civil, half angry; and then, still scratching his silver-stubbled cheek, he wished Lucy good-night, shaking his head the while, to which she replied, “Please don’t be angry,” in a way that brought a smile into the old man’s countenance; a sunny smile that began at one corner of his month, and then spread through stubbly whisker, and over wrinkle, till it was all over his face, clearing away the shadow that had lain there; but as old Matt turned away, his head began to shake, and the shadow that had been lurking in the farther whisker crept back again, slowly and surely, as night crept down over Bennett’s-rents to hide the sordid misery that chose the court for its home.

“What’s ‘9:30’?” said Matt to himself, as passing out of the court his thoughts took a fresh direction. “Nice-looking party that. ’Spose I button up my coat over my gold repeater. They were thinking about what’s o’clock, they were, hang ’em.”

Old Matt Space suited the action to the word, bursting off a button in the operation, and then carefully picking it up and saving it, as he strode off muttering.

“‘Nine-thirty’? What’s their little game?”

Volume One – Chapter Twelve.
Friends from Town

“For God’s sake, Octy,” gurgled Doctor Hardon almost inaudibly, so tightly were the fingers clutching his throat, – “don’t! don’t! I was only looking.”

“Turn on the glim, Joe,” croaked a harsh voice; when a bright light flashed in a broad, well-defined, ever-widening path right across the room, leaving the untouched portion in a darkness of the blackest; but the light shone where the doctor could see his brother upon the floor, with a rough fellow kneeling beside him, while a coarse, big-jawed ruffian, the upper portion of whose face was covered with crape, held on tightly by the doctor’s throat with fingers whose bony force he had at first taken for his brother’s. It was evident that another man was present holding the lantern; but from the position of the light he was in the shadow, and so invisible.

“Light that there lamp again,” croaked the same voice; and at the same time the doctor felt himself dragged at until he rose to his feet, when he was backed into a chair, one hand being loosened from his throat. Directly after a heavy blow fell upon his head, causing the light to dance and sparkle before his eyes.

“There,” growled the voice; “that’s jest a reminder, that is. That didn’t hurt, that didn’t; but it’s jest to show what we could do if yer get to be troublesome. Now, then,” growled the ruffian to his companion, who was stooping over the fire, “light that lamp, d’yer hear? You’re gallus sharp, you are.”

“Who’s to light the butcherly thing when hain’t got no ile in?” growled the ruffian addressed.

“I wish you’d got a little more ile in you,” croaked the first speaker in a voice that seemed to ascend through a tubular rasp. “Hang on here, will yer, and give us holt.”

The doctor felt himself delivered over into another pair of hands, the change not being for the better; for the new gaoler seemed to be experimentalising, and trying to find out the best place for holding on by when doing a little modern Thuggee, consequently the doctor’s was not a pleasant situation.

Directly after, a little oil was spilt upon the fire, causing it to blaze up and illumine the room, displaying to the doctor’s starting eyes the three costermonger-like figures of the men in the room; when, seeing his quiescence, the one acting as gaoler called attention to a couple of candles in old bronze-holders upon the chimney-piece, and, loosing his hold of his prisoner, leaned forward to reach them down.

It was a tempting moment for the doctor, and, without pausing to think of its uselessness, he seized the bell-rope within his reach, and dragged at it heavily. But the next instant he had fallen back in his chair from a well-planted blow between the eyes, and then, half-stunned, he listened to the faint tones of the bell as the men produced what seemed to be so much clothes-line from a small carpet-bag, with which they dexterously and firmly bound him to his chair.

“You improves, you do,” growled the first ruffian to the man lighting the candles. “Been all the same if that there jangler had alarmed the whole blessed country.”

“How was I to know as he’d jump up like so much watchworks?” said the other, placing the lighted candles, whose tops were encrusted with ash from the fire, upon the table.

“Know! not you; but you knows how to claim yer share of the swag.”

Then the poor old man upon the floor, whose wild, staring eyes seemed to betoken some violent seizure, was lifted into a chair opposite his brother, and bound after the same fashion, when the spokesman of the party shook the heavy leaden knob of that misnamed article a life-preserver in the doctor’s face, saying: “Don’t you try no more games, my kiddy, or else” – a playful tap illustrated his meaning. “She’s safe in bed, and tied up so as she won’t answer no ringing nohow. She’s tucked up all right, she is; d’yer hear?”

The preserver-handle was very elastic, and the knob tapped playfully upon the doctor’s forehead as the ruffian spoke; but the bound man was too confused to answer, and though what followed seemed to him like a wild dream, yet his heart leaped once as he saw the fellow snatch the will from the floor, where it had fallen, tear open the seal, and hold the paper to the light.

“What’s in it, Bill?” growled another of the gentry.

“Gallussed if I know,” said the other; “but ’tain’t no good;” and the doctor saw it crushed together and thrown upon the fire, where it blazed up and was soon consumed. But confused as the doctor was, the next proceedings of the ruffians produced groan after groan from his breast, as they attacked his vanity, and metaphorically rolled him in the dust; for removing a fur cap that he wore, so as to cool his brain perhaps, and displaying thereby a very closely-cropped bullet-head, the leader of the gang, as he seemed to be, first snapped the doctor’s gold-chain, and set it and watch at liberty; for the doctor’s bonds would have impeded their being taken off in the normal fashion. Then followed, one after the other, to be placed in a small carpet-bag with the watch and chain, the spectacle-case and gold eyeglass; the handsomely-chased gold snuff-box from one pocket, gold toothpick from another. The set of studs were dragged from the cambric front; a massively-set diamond ring from the doctor’s right hand, and a signet from his left; while as the various ornaments were passed from one to the other, and deposited in the bag, a broad grin followed each groan from the doctor.

“Where’s his puss, Bill?” said Number 8 ruffian, who was the Judas Iscariot of the party, and carried the bag.

“Here it is,” growled Bill, whose hands were wonderfully active for so heavy, burly-looking a man, diving in and out of pocket after pocket, and now drawing forth a very handsome, elaborately-gilt, russia-leather portemonnaie – half purse, half pocket-book – and grinning as he opened it, he drew out and laid upon the table, first a railway insurance ticket, next a lancet, then a crooked sixpence, and lastly a threepenny-piece.

“Here, lay holt o’ this ’ere, and slit it up,” said Number 2 ruffian, handing his companion an open clasp-knife.

The gentleman called Bill took the knife and ripped the purse all to pieces, tearing leather from lining everywhere; but no notes fell out, no secret pocket was disclosed; and throwing the remains of the purse upon the fire with an aspect of the most profound disgust upon his face, the fellow exclaimed, “I’m gallussed!”

“Let’s wet it, Bill, afore we goes any further,” said Number 8, and as he crossed silently to the sideboard, and brought out the port and another decanter, the doctor saw that the men were without boots, which accounted to him for their sudden attack.

The wine and glasses were placed upon the table, and the burglars very coolly proceeded to refresh themselves – one seating himself upon the table, another upon a chair, and the last taking his place upon the coal-scuttle – treating it as if it were a saddle.

“Here’s towards yer, old un!” growled the big-jawed gentleman called Bill, tossing, or rather pouring, a glass of wine down his bull throat as he looked at the doctor – his companions paying the same compliment to Octavius, who, however, seemed to be perfectly insensible.

All at once a faint scream was heard from another part of the house, when one of the men rose.

“She thinks as we’re gone, Bill,” said ruffian Number 2, with a grin. “Just go and show her that mug of yours, and she’ll soon shut them pipes.”

Bill of the big jaw rose, displaying his teeth so that the lips seemed to assimilate with the gums; and he, apparently taking his comrade’s remark for a compliment, walked out on the points of his toes, in a peculiar fashion of his own; when, winking to his companion, Number 2 stole softly to the sideboard, looked about a bit, and then seizing a small silver salver, doubled it by main force, and slipped it into the pocket of his velveteen coat. He then darted back to his place, whispered “halves” to his companion, and began helping himself to more wine, just as Bill hurried in again, glancing suspiciously about him with his peculiarly restless, chameleon-like eyes, which seemed to be on the watch for plunder, trickery, and Nemesis, at one and the same time, and now it was evident that he suspected a march to have been stolen upon him.

However, a few more glasses of wine were drunk, and then the men proceeded to methodically ransack the place, finding a tolerable booty of old-fashioned plate in the sideboard; while from the bureau, another gold watch, with its old-fashioned broad chain and seals; a ring or two, some quaint jewellery, and a few sovereigns and small change were obtained.

The cords which bound the brothers were then carefully examined, and a knot or two tightened, so that the doctor winced; then the candles were extinguished, and the big-jawed man growled in the doctor’s ear, “Now, jest you move, that’s all; and I’m gallussed – ”

The fellow did not finish his speech verbally, but again illustrated his meaning with a tap of the life-preserver.

“We ain’t a-goin’ yet,” growled Number 8; “so don’t you think it. I have used this ’ere, and I ain’t used it,” he said, showing his clasp-knife; “but it’s a sharp un – so I tell you; and where it does go, it goes – so look out.”

“This one’s been a-drinkin’; smell his breath,” said Number 2, nodding at old Octavius, as he cast the light from the lantern upon his wild face.

Just then the doctor gave a loud groan, for his cords hurt him.

“Shove a bit in his mouth, Bill, or he’ll begin to pipe, p’r’aps,” growled Number 8.

“He’d best not,” said Bill savagely; “but how-so-be he shall have it; there’s some knives in that there drawer.”

Doctor Hardon’s eyes rolled in their sockets as he saw one of the men go to the sideboard drawer and bring out a large table-knife. Then the head of the party took it from his companion’s hand and held the blade between the bars, where the fire yet glowed, when the effect in a few minutes was to loosen the handle, for the resin melted, and the blade slipped out. The man then took the handle, untied and slipped off the doctor’s white cravat, and then turning his back, rolled the knife-haft tightly in its folds; while, wondering what was to follow, the horror-stricken captive began to groan dismally.

“Now for it,” cried Bill sharply, seizing the bound and helpless man by the throat, when, fancying that his last hour had come, the doctor opened his mouth to cry out, when the knife-handle was thrust between his teeth, and the cravat tightly tied behind his head, keeping the gag securely in its place, and thoroughly robbing him of the power of even crying out.

“Now t’other,” said Bill. “Get another knife out.”

“Ah! he’s all right,” said Number 2. “I’d leave him.”

“P’r’aps you would,” said Bill; “but we two don’t want to be blowed on, if you do.”

“But he’s a-most dead now,” said Number 2; “and if you stop his mouth that way, I’m blessed if I don’t think he will be quite afore morning.”

“And what then?” said Bill contemptuously; “what if he is? What’s the good of an old cove like him? Yah!”

However, that part of the ceremony was left undone. The doctor heard the door close, open again, for the key to be dragged out of the lock and replaced in the other side; when once more the door was closed and double-locked. Then followed the sound as of a whispered dispute, and again silence, till it was broken by a faint scream from upstairs; while, with every nerve on the stretch, the doctor listened for the next movement, as, still somewhat confused in mind, he kept fancying that the stertorous breathing of his brother was that of one of the ruffians on guard at the door.