"Yes," said Septimus, referring once more to his pocket-book; "yes; this is the number I took down." "So it is," said Matt, after a reference to his own memorandum-book. "That's right enough; but wait a bit, one never knows where to be right or wrong with numbers; they always were things as bothered a man; for you have your numbers so-and-so a, and b, and c, and goodness knows how many more, until you're regularly puzzled. Perhaps that's an a, or a b, or something of that kind, and the number we want is somewhere else." "Let's walk on a little," said Septimus; and they went slowly down one side and up the other, but this proved to be the only house numbered as they wanted. "Do you know of a Mr Phillips, a surgeon, in this neighbourhood?" said Septimus to the first policeman they met. The man of order shook his head, beat his white gloves together, and then rearranged the shaken head in his shiny stock before continuing his walk. "Let's go to the fountain-head at once," said Matt; "perhaps they know something about him. Here we are again--`Tollicks' Registry Office for Servants.' Let's see what Mr Tollicks knows about him." "Stop a minute," said Septimus, to keep procrastination alive for a few moments longer. "Perhaps there is another door." "No more doors there, unless they're backdoors," growled Matt; and leading the way, they stood in a floor-clothed room,--the office itself,--furnished with a green--baize--covered table, bearing a stencil-plate, inkstand, and brush; and beside the wall a long bench, upon which sat apparently one of the servants waiting to be hired from ten to four, as announced by a bill in the window, which spoke of cooks, housemaids, and general servants as being regularly in attendance; but most probably the others, tired, had gone home for the day, for the damsel in question was the only one visible. She was "Corrnwall sure," as indicated by the shape of her nose, though any ignorant person might have been excused for mistaking her for an inhabitant of the sister isle. The door gave a sharp "ting" as it was opened, and another as it was closed,--the refinement of the old jingling door bell of the chandler's shop,--when the young lady on the bench rose, and made a bob and sat down again, and someone from an inner chamber cried, "Coming!" Then a small dog with a very apoplectic voice barked loudly to the tune of a little bell secured to its neck, and came waddling round the counter to smell Septimus Hardon's legs; when visiting old Matt for the same purpose, that gentleman favoured him with a pinch of snuff dropped softly towards his nose, provoking a most violent fit of sneezing, and a loud and agitated jingling of the tiny bell.