Of the vast congeries of buildings which then encased St. Stephen’s Chapel and its beautiful but degraded cloisters, little more than the Hall is left to us. The Hall we have, and in the main in the condition in which the men of that generation viewed it; as Canning viewed it, when with death in his face he paced its length on Peel’s arm, and suspecting, perhaps, that they two would meet no more, proved to all men the good-will he bore his rival. Those among us whose memories go back a quarter of a century, and who can recall its aspect in term-time, with three score barristers parading its length, and thrice as many suitors and attorneys darting over its pavement—all under the lofty roof which has no rival in Europe—will be able to picture it as Vaughan saw it when he entered. To the bustle attending the courts of law was added on this occasion the supreme excitement of the day. In every corner, on the steps of every court, eager groups wrangled and debated; while above the hubbub of argument and the trampling of feet, the voices of ushers rose monotonously, calling a witness or enjoining order. Vaughan paused beside the cake-stall at the door and surveyed the scene. As he stood, one of two men who were pacing near saw him, and with a whispered word left his companion and came towards him. “Mr. Vaughan,” he said, extending his hand with bland courtesy, “I hope you are well. Can I do anything for you? We are dissolved, but a frank is a frank for all that—to-day.” “No, I thank you,” Vaughan answered. “The truth is, I had an appointment with the Chancellor for this afternoon. But I suppose he will not see me now.” The other’s eyebrows met, with the result that his face looked less bland. He was a small man, with keen dark eyes and bushy grey whiskers, and an air of hawk-like energy which sixty years had not tamed. He wore the laced coat of a sergeant at law, powdered on the shoulders, as if he had but lately and hurriedly cast off his wig. “Good G—d!” he said. “With the Chancellor!” And then, pulling himself up, “But I congratulate you. A student at the Bar, as I believe you are, Mr. Vaughan, who has appointments with the Chancellor, has fortune indeed within his grasp.” Vaughan laughed. “I fear not,” he said. “There are appointments and appointments, Sergeant Wathen. Mine is not of a professional nature.” Still the sergeant’s face, do what he would, looked grim. He had his reasons for disliking what he heard. “Indeed!” he said drily. “Indeed! But I must not detain you. Your time,” with a faint note of sarcasm, “is valuable.” And with a civil salutation the two parted. Wathen went back to his companion. “Talk of the Old One!” he said. “Do you know who that is?” “No,” the other answered. They had been discussing the coming election. “Who is it?” “One of my constituents.” His friend laughed. “Oh, come,” he said. “I thought you had but one, sergeant—old Vermuyden.”