It was the early dusk of a dull November day--a day in which there had not been even twilight in London--such days as are only to be seen there and in Archangel--when one of those awful black fogs prevail, when gas is lighted everywhere, when all wheel traffic is suspended, when cabs, 'buses, and drays cease to run, and sounds become curiously deadened or muffled. Lord Cadbury, from narrow Lombard Street, turned into that narrower alley which lies between it and King William Street called St. Clement's Lane, from the ancient church dedicated to that saint some time prior to 1309, and for the rebuilding of which, after the great fire, the parish bestowed upon Sir Christopher Wren the curious fee of 'one-third of a hogshead of wine.' Here now are the close, narrow, and in many instances mean and sordid-looking offices of merchants, insurance agents, bill-brokers, and others, who, however, turn over vast sums of money in their humble-looking premises. To this curious quarter of the City Lord Cadbury had come, with his thoughts intent--strange to say--upon Alison Cheyne! The girl's great loveliness and purity had fired his passion--pure love it was not, nor could it be--and a sentiment of jealousy, pique, and more than either--something of revenge--made him resolve, through her father's means, to bend, to bow, to crush her to the end he wished! At his years he was more than ever exasperated by the thought of having a young and handsome rival like Bevil Goring to contend with; and much jealousy had thus made the elderly lover mad with spite and reckless of consequences; and as he knew that poverty and shame made Sir Ranald desperate he resolved to take his measures accordingly. The longing to break her pride and to triumph over Goring made Cadbury meanly revengeful, and thus it was that on the day in question he went groping towards the office of Mr. Solomon Slagg, a bill discounter in this gloomy locality. A narrow passage, closed by a green baize-covered swing door, led to a room, or rather den, in which a couple of clerks sat all day long, and often far into the night, perched on two high stools, writing in the same dreary ledgers by gaslight, for the blessed rays of the sun never found entrance there all the year round; and in a smaller den beyond, usually lighted, but dimly, by a curious arrangement of reflectors, sat Mr. Solomon Slagg, writing by the light of a single gas jet, minus shade or glass, but encircled by a wire guard. The dingy room--the walls, ceiling, and bare floor were all of the same neutral kind of grey tint--had a little fire-place, wherein stood a meagre gas-stove. Above it on shelves were numerous mysterious-looking bottles containing samples of wine, and against the wall were numerous oil-paintings, placed there, not for ornament, but with reference to Mr. Slagg's multifarious modes of doing business and 'doing' the public.