follow it, but it was gone. That is all, Fox; I thought you would like to know." If a face of the pallid hue of Mr. Fox-Cordery's could be said to grow white, it may be said of his at this revelation; otherwise he betrayed no sign of agitation. He made no comment upon it, and asked no questions; but the indefinite change of color did not escape John Dixon's observation. "It is a pleasure to know that you have emptied your budget," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Dixon." "Good-morning, Fox," said John Dixon. "You will probably acknowledge that I had a sufficient reason for paying you this visit." He did not wait for the acknowledgment, but took his departure without another word. Mr. Fox-Cordery stood motionless by the window. There was writing on the dreary back wall, invisible to all eyes but his. "If he has betrayed me!" he muttered; "if he has betrayed me!" and pursued his thought no further in spoken words. A quarter of an hour afterward he went to his mother. "Have you given Charlotte her clothes?" he asked. "Not yet, Fox," she replied. "What did that man want with you?" "That man is my enemy!" he said, with fury in his voice and face; "my bitter enemy. Go, and give Charlotte her clothes immediately. And, mother, take her out and buy her one or two nicknacks--a silver brooch for a few shillings, a bit of ribbon. Be sweet to her. Curse her and him! Be sweet to her, and say I gave you the money to buy the presents. We need her on our side more than ever. Don't stop to argue with me; do as I bid you!" "I will obey you in everything, my love," she said, gazing at him solicitously. He motioned her away, and she stole from the room, wishing she possessed the malignant power to strike his enemy dead at her feet. CHAPTER VI. In which we make the acquaintance of Rathbeal. That same night, as Big Ben was striking the hour of nine, Mr. Fox-Cordery, spick and span as usual, and with not a visible crease upon him, crossed Westminster Bridge, Kennington way, bent on an errand of importance, and plunged into the melancholy thoroughfares which beset, but cannot be said to adorn, that sad-colored neighborhood. In some quarters of London the houses have a peculiarly forlorn appearance, as though life at its best were a poor thing, and not worth troubling about. If general cheerlessness and despondency had been the aim of the builders and speculators responsible for their distinguishing characteristics, they may be complimented upon their success, but certainly not upon their taste. It is as easy to make houses pretty as to make them ugly, and curves are no more difficult to compass than angles; facts which have not established themselves in the consciousness of the average Englishman, who remains stupidly content with dull, leaden-looking surfaces, and a pernicious uniformity of front--which may account for the dejection of visage to be met with in such streets as Mr. Fox-Cordery was traversing.