As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling came 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 same 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, where could he fly to? 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; and 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 bedclothes,) 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 an iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,” suggested Brittle. “It was, when _you_ heerd, 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.