the very heart of the waste, where, it was confidently trusted, he might be safely kept the remainder of his days, beyond the possibility of human discovery. In consequence of the success of the Doctor's stratagem, Fanny and Mr. Sylvester returned disappointed and out of spirit to their home. Such, in substance, was the brief story related by Fanny to Colin on the occasion of her visit to town; and which he had a few days before communicated to Mr. Lupton. Whether the arrest of Doctor Rowel, when it became known amongst his friends, and to the brother, of whom we have above spoken, might not have precipitated some tragical conclusion or other of Woodruff's life,--is doubtful, perhaps highly probable; had not a singular and very mysterious communication concerning him been made to Colin, and from a quarter equally mysterious, some month or so after the occurrences above described. CHAPTER XXVII. _London Bridge, and an unexpected scene upon it._ It was about four o'clock--sometime before daylight--one morning, nearly a month after the events last described, that Mr. Lupton and Colin might have been seen wending their way along the chilly and silent streets, in the direction of London Bridge. Saving the deliberate footfalls of the night-watch, the far-heard rattle of some early carriage over the resounding pavement, or perhaps now and then the smothered asthmatical cough of some poor old creature or other turned out thus early, in cloak and covered chair, to sit with charcoal fire and coffee in the streets, there were no audible signs that any soul existed there besides themselves. London was asleep. This Goliah of earthly cities had lain itself down wearied, and for a time lost itself in forgetfulness of all the world. Its labours suspended, its pleasures wearied into pains, and laid all aside, its virtue dreaming innocently, its vice steeped painfully in the burning phlegethon of disturbed stupor, like a half-dreamed hell; its happy, hopeful of the morrow; its miserable, dreading the approach of another sun. While itself, the carcass of the great city, lay stretched athwart the banks of the broad river, as, overpowered with the mighty labours which it had achieved within the last four and twenty hours, and unconsciously receiving strength from repose for that additional exertion, whose repetitions day by day, year by year, and age after age, no man can count to the end. “Five o'clock exactly,” said Colin, “is, I think, the time appointed, and on the city side of the bridge.” As he said this he drew from his pocket the communication to which allusion was made at the conclusion of the last chapter, and again perused it.