"Difford's Buildings, Paddington," had been the address, so we thought it would not be far to go. The Squire held on in his way along the crowded streets, as if he were about to set things to rights, elbowing the people, and asking the road at every turn. Some did not know Difford's Buildings, and some directed us wrongly; but we got there at last. It was in a narrow, quiet street; a row of what Londoners call eight-roomed houses, with little gates opening to the square patches of smoky garden, and "Difford's Buildings" written up as large as life at the corner. "Let's see," said the Squire, looking sideways at the windows. "Number thirteen, was it not, Johnny?" "Yes, sir." Difford's Buildings were not well lighted, and there was no seeing the numbers. The Squire stopped before the one he thought must be thirteen; when some one came out at the house-door, shutting it behind him, and met us at the gate. A youngish clergyman in a white necktie. He and the Squire stood looking at each other in the gathering darkness. "Can you tell me if Mr. Blair lives here?" "Yes, he does," was the answer. "I think--I think I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Todhetley." The Squire knew him then--the Reverend Mr. Lockett. They had met when Blair first took to the school. "What _is_ all this extraordinary history?" burst forth the Squire, seizing him by the button of his great-coat, and taking him a few yards further on. "Mrs. Blair has been writing us a strange rigmarole, which nobody can make head or tail of; about ruin, and sales, and something she calls _Jerry's Gazette_." "Ay," quietly answered the clergyman in a tone of pain, as he put his arm inside the Squire's, and they paced slowly up and down. "It is one of the saddest histories my experience has ever had to do with." The Squire was near coming to an explosion in the open street. "Will you be pleased to tell me, sir, whether there exists such a thing as _Jerry's Gazette_, or whether it is a fable? I have heard of Jerry's Performing Dogs; went to see 'em once: but I don't know what this other invention can be." "Certainly there is such a thing," said Mr. Lockett. "It is, I fancy, a list of people who unfortunately get into difficulties; at least, people who fall into difficulties seem to get shown up in it. I am told it is meant chiefly for private circulation: which may imply, as I imagine (but here I may be wrong) what may be called secret circulation. Blair had occasion to borrow a little money, and _his_ name appeared in it. From that moment he was a marked man, and his school fell off." "Goodness bless my soul!" cried the Squire solemnly, completely taken aback at hearing Mary's letter confirmed. "Who gives _Jerry's Gazette_ the right to do this?" "I don't know about the right. It seems it has the power."