Did this chivalrous spirit, therefore, shrink at the last from its self-imposed Quest? Not for a moment. The Law to Gilead was nothing but a sifter of evidence. It took no cognizance of obscure motives, but decided on the facts before it, with which facts any clever counsel could juggle as with balls or handkerchiefs. Mr Winsom Wyllie might, legally, be altogether unassailable; the fact remained that he was enjoying a small fortune to the possession of which another was by every moral right entitled. That was enough for the Paladin. Or was he so enjoying it? That same afternoon Gilead paid another visit to Somerset House--only to find that the will, so far as he could discover, remained yet unproved. He was puzzled; but on the whole reassured. Surely this delay argued some remorse, at least some hesitation, on the part of the legatee? Or did it imply a reluctance in him to take that step which must put his coveted victim for ever beyond the reach of his arts and solicitations? Whichever way, nothing but advantage could accrue from his ascertaining that wealth, and the power which it bestows were engaged, and sternly, on the side of the young lady. The warning, for the best of its value, should not be thrown away upon such a man, so audacious and yet so wary. Ten o’clock the following morning found Gilead punctual to his appointment in Coldbath Lane, Brixton. It was not a prepossessing neighbourhood, nor was the day exhilarating. Under a cloudy sky brooded an atmosphere of sticky humidity. The squalor of a deep-London slum was represented by everything in the way of dreariness but its swarming life. Here were the dull dwelling-houses, the tawdry shops, the costers’ barrows, the stench of fish frying in rancid grease. Only the human congestion was less--nothing in comparison. A postman, with a flaccid bag, suggestive of a lean correspondence, over his shoulder, directed him to the yard for the unemployed--directed him dubiously, too, knowing that want often strutted in strange guises. Gilead knocked on the closed gates, and waited. An asthmatic sound of sawing, which had been audible within, ceased, resumed itself like an arrested cough, stopped again, and, after an interval, a slow heavy footstep approached. “Who’s there?” asked a weary voice. “George Barnwell,” answered Gilead. “I have come punctual to your appointment, sir.” A clock, indeed, at the moment sounded the hour. It took the strokes deliberately, yet not so deliberately as the unseen stranger took Gilead’s statement. He appeared to ponder it exhaustively. Gilead could hear him through the keyhole breathing like a man asleep and gently snoring. “Well,” said the voice at last. “I suppose I had better let you in.”