So they pushed on, uncaring for the chaff of the mob, which was very facetious on the subject of Mr. Effingham's attire, saluting him as a "collared bloke," in delicate compliment to his wearing a clean shirt; asking whether he was a "Rooshan;" whether he were not "Prince Halbut's brother," and other delicate compliments,--pushed on until they arrived at the Clothes-Exchange, a roofed building filled round every side and in the centre with old-clothes stalls. Here, piled up in wondrous confusion, lay hats, coats, boots, hob-nailed shoes, satin ball-shoes, driving-coats, satin dresses, hoops, brocaded gowns, flannel jackets, fans, shirts, stockings with clocks, stockings with torn and darned feet, feathers, parasols, black-silk mantles, blue-kid boots, belcher neckerchiefs, and lace ruffles. More Jews here; salesmen shrieking out laudations of their wares, and frantically imploring passers-by to come in and be fitted: "Here'th a coat! plue Vitney; trai this plue Vitney, ma tear." "Here'th a vethkit for you, thir!" shouted one man to Effingham; "thuch a vethkit! a thplendid vethkit, covered all over with blue-and-thilver thpright." Mr. Effingham cast a longing eye at this gorgeous garment, but passed on. No Lyons here, either among sharp-eyed vendors or leering buyers. Mr. Griffiths was getting nonplussed, and Mr. Effingham growing anxious. "We must find him, Griffiths," he said; "we must not throw away this chance that he's given us; he may be off to the Continent, Lord knows where, to-morrow. Why the devil don't you find him?" Mr. Griffiths intimated that so far as eye-straining could be gone through, he had done his best; and suggested that if the man they sought were not there, all the energy in the world would not discover him. "But there's the Net of Lemons yet," he said; "that's, after all, the safest draw, and we're more likely to hit upon him there than anywhere else." So they pushed their way through the steaming, seething, struggling crowd, and found themselves in a quiet dull little square. Across this, and merely glancing at several groups of men dotted here and there in its midst, loudly talking and gesticulating with energy which smacked more of the Hamburg Börsenhalle or the Frankfort Zeil than the stolid reticence of England, Mr. Griffiths led his companion until they stopped before the closed door of a public house, aloft from which swung the sign of "The Net of Lemons." At the door Mr. Griffiths gave three mystic raps, at the third of which the door opened for about a couple of inches, and a thick voice said, "Who is it?" "All right, Mr. Eliason. Griffiths, whom you know. Take a squint, and judge for yourself." Mr. Eliason probably followed this advice, and finding the inspection satisfactory, opened the door to its extent, and admitted the pair; but raising his bushy brows in doubt as to Mr. Effingham, Griffiths said, "A friend of mine--come on partickler business, and by appointment with Mr. Lyons. Is he here?"