As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had seen it before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of the building seemed familiar to him. That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very house they had attempted to rob. Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushed against the garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and, his whole strength failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the little portico. It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker, were recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles’s habit to admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants: towards whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could not fail to remind them of his superior position in society. But, death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out before the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with his right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the robbery, to which his hearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless interest. “It was about half-past two,” said Mr. Giles, “or I wouldn’t swear that it mightn’t have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning round in my bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned round in his chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.” At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the housemaid to shut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended not to hear. “—Heerd a noise,” continued Mr. Giles. “I says, at first, ‘This is illusion’; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the noise again, distinct.” “What sort of a noise?” asked the cook. “A kind of a busting noise,” replied Mr. Giles, looking round him. “More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,” suggested Brittles. “It was, when _you_ heerd it, sir,” rejoined Mr. Giles; “but, at this time, it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes”; continued Giles, rolling back the table-cloth, “sat up in bed; and listened.” The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated “Lor!” and drew their chairs closer together.