It was with a feeling of intense suppressed excitement that I came down into the courts surrounding the inner tabernacle of that mystery which my heart was set and my nerves were strung upon resolving. I had had no difficulty in finding the place. Luck, the old spoiler, was in the way to smooth every present obstacle from my path. The ridiculous ease with which I had hit my goal, left me no lack of self-confidence in the question of successfully exploiting it. But there, it will be seen, I reckoned without my host; and in the meanwhile there were some surprises in store for me. It was a most bitter morning. A north-east wind slashed at Old Paradise Street like the sword of the archangel. The flood moving beyond its outlet--the river of the land of gold--was as unlike Pison as one might conceive. Thick and resistless, it went by with a gloating sound, a sewer rather than a stream. The old palace on its embankment looked numb with cold. There was more life in the fried-fish shop round the corner than in all its historic stones. I had inquired at this shop for Mother Carey’s number in the street. A slipshod girl, who was sweeping up the floor, gave it me, but with a reservation. “Do you mean the old miser lady, ai?” She was a dirty girl, but insolent with life--a reassurance in that deadly climate of Paradise. “I don’t know,” I said. “Very likely. I only know that her name’s Carey, and that she lives in this street.” She came to the door, broom in hand, and pointed me out the house. It was not far beyond--a dirty-faced little tenement, between a frowzy barber’s and a frowzy cobbler’s, but having a door and parlour windows of its own instead of a shop front. “There’ll be what you want,” said the girl--“number six: but you won’t get in.” “Why not?” “Nobody does. She lives private and takes her beer on the chain.” Her beer! Lady Skene’s mother! the parent of that cold and stately apparition--the stem from which that lovely rose had flowered! Here was a startling beginning! But there was worse to come. “Well,” I said stoutly, “there’ll be nothing lost by my trying, anyhow.” The venture ran abroad somehow, for all the uninviting weather, and by the time I reached number six there were heads poking out of windows to canvas my repulse. I knocked at the door, and waited. After a quite reasonable interval a shuffling footstep sounded within, bolts were withdrawn, and the door opened a few inches, and grated on an iron tether. “Who’s there?” said a querulous thin voice. “I want to see Mother Carey,” I answered. “She’s not in; she sees no one; she isn’t fit to be seen; go away!” said the voice, and the door came to sharply; but I had my foot ready. “She’ll see Richard Gaskett, I’m sure,” I whispered through the crevice. “Richard!” An old, old snuffy beak, shining eyes, and a withered mouth agape showed in the crack; and there they dwelt for a full minute. “What do you want of me?” she muttered at last.