Albert and his father paid but little heed to the careless throng they passed among; their thoughts were intent upon the object of their search, although it was with a sigh that the elder Seyton marked the hopeful countenance and tone of his son; for he himself had been used to disappointment, and expected but little from the visit to the magistrate. It grieved him therefore to think that Albert should hope much from the application, because he knew that his disappointment, should it result in nothing, would be proportionately great. “Albert,” he said, “this step I consider more a matter of public duty than anything else. We must still trust to Providence to protect Ada, only we place ourselves in a little better position by the co-operation of a magistrate so much respected and esteemed as Sir Frederick Hartleton, in what we do.” “He may find me, my Ada,” said Albert, “and so entitle himself to a gratitude from me that shall be boundless.” “You had better let me tell the tale,” said his father, noticing the agitated spirits of Albert—“should I omit anything, you can put me right Albert.” “As you please, father,” he replied, “I am too much agitated to speak what I know.” “Your sincerity will be the most apparent to Sir Frederick by the emotion you cannot subdue, Albert. All men, but those who are evil-doers, or live on the fruits of crime, speak well of this gentleman, as an upright magistrate and a feeling man.” He had now crossed the park and emerged at the little, gate leading to Pimlico. They then inquired for the office of Sir Frederick, and were directed down a narrow street, called Buckingham-place, which was but dimly lighted by the inefficient oil lamps of the period. Over an open doorway was a lamp, with the words “Magistrate’s Office,” boldly enamelled upon the dirty glass. “This must be the place, father,” said Albert, hurriedly. “No doubt,” replied Seyton. “Come in, Albert.” They stooped under the low arched doorway, and were immediately confronted by a man of coarse heavy build, who demanded to know their business. “We have a private communication to make to Sir Frederick,” said Mr. Seyton. “Oh, private?” muttered the man. “Yes, strictly private.” “Is it anything about Bill Soames?” “Bill who?” “Bill Soames—he’s nabbed for robbing the Bishop of Ely, crossing the open waste opposite Tyburn Gate.” “No, its quite private business of another kind,” said Mr. Seyton. “There is my card—this is my son. Please to tell Sir Frederick that we have a private communication to make to him alone.” The man took the card and passed through a doorway, growling as he went. In a few moments he returned, and taking a key from a bunch at his girdles he opened a door at the further end of the passage, at the same time saying,— “This way.”