Gilead took a cab to Raxe’s Hotel, and enquired at once for “Judex.” He seemed conscious of a twinkle in the right eye of the hall-porter who took his name, and of that of the boy who went off with it, as if some telegraphic levity had passed between them. But in a little the boy came back, with a perfectly sober face, and informed him that Mr Judex would see him. He was shown upstairs into a private sitting-room, where by a table sat a little old man, shrewd and withered, but of a very spruce appearance. His eyes were piercing black, his lips kept a perpetual chewing motion, like a crab’s, a few threads of white hair clung to the barren slopes of his scalp. But he was very neatly dressed in grey twill frock-coat and trousers, with a shepherd’s plaid bow at his neck. [image: images/img_041.jpg caption: “A LITTLE OLD MAN, SHREWD AND WITHERED.”] “Mr Judex?” said Gilead. “My name, sir,” said the stranger. “You thought it a pseudonym, no doubt. Now, usher!” The exclamation was addressed to the boy, who vanished. “I called in answer to your advertisement,” said Gilead, not unprepared for surprises. “Be seated,” said the stranger. The bright eyes bent upon him. “You are young, and a gentleman, I take note, Mr Balm,” he said. “A hard-up one--eh?” “No, not hard-up.” “What then?” “A seeker after the truth,” said Gilead. “I pursue it day by day through the columns of the _Daily Post_. Money is no object to me.” The little old man bent forward, and eagerly scanned his visitor. “If that is so,” he said, “fortune could not have sent me a better coadjutor. You are dispassionate, disinterested, whole-hearted?” “Entirely,” said Gilead. The old man rubbed his palms gleefully together. “It is a providence,” he said. “It is to demonstrate a truth, a momentous truth, that I advertised for an agent.” “May I ask,” said Gilead, “what truth.” “Hush-sh-sh!” said Mr Judex, putting a finger to his lips with exaggerated gravity. “It lies to prove in the wine-cellar of number forty-one, Belgrave Crescent--a very deep and dark cellar.” Gilead’s eyes opened a little; but he sat calm and collected. He thought he perceived that he had to do here with an eccentric, not to say a daft old gentleman. But, if the quest was to bear fruit, he must betray nothing of his feelings. The other stretched out, and put a soft impressive hand upon his arm. “Have you a clean conscience?” he said. “I believe I may claim one,” answered the young man, smiling. “No sense of guilt anywhere within?” “Nothing to trouble me.” “Exactly. You are not afraid of being alone with your thoughts?” “O! no.” “Even in the dark?” “Even in the dark.” “If you were conscience-stricken, on the other hand, you might dread your own company unspeakably?” “It is very likely, I think.” “Especially in the dark?” “I daresay.” “So much so as to be urged to any means to escape it, perhaps?” “Indeed,” said Gilead, “I could not answer for myself under the circumstances.”