"There's the gent with the 'air on," he said, in conclusion; "and that finishes it." Mr. Fox-Cordery's face lighted up. "Long gray hair?" he asked. "Yes," replied the hobbledehoy. "Could make a pair of wigs out of it." "Down to here?" asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, with his hand at his breast. "That's the wery identical. Looks like the Wizard of the North. Long legs and arms, face like a lion." "That is the person I want," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Third floor back," said the hobbledehoy; and, with the virtuous feeling of a boy who has earned his pennies, he walked into the house, with his head up; whereby Mr. Fox-Cordery learned that knockers and bells were superfluities, and that anyone was free of the street door, and could obtain entrance by a simple push. Following the instruction, he mounted the stairs slowly, lighting matches as he ascended to save himself from falling into a chance trap; a necessary precaution, for the passages were pitch dark, and the balustrades and staircases generally in a tumbledown, rickety condition. The third floor was the top of the house, and comprised one front and one back room. He knocked at the latter without eliciting a response, and knocked again with the same result. Then he turned the handle, which yielded to his pressure, and entered. The room was as dark as the passages, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, after calling in vain, "Here, you, Rathbeal, you!" had recourse to his matchbox again; and seeing the end of a candle in a tall candlestick of curious shape upon the table, he lighted it and looked around. From the moment of his entering the room he had been conscious of a faint odor, rather disturbing to his senses, and now, as he looked around, he satisfied himself as to the cause. On a quaintly carved bracket were a bottle and a small box. The bottle was empty, but there was a little opium in the box. "At his old game," he muttered. "Why doesn't it kill him? But I wouldn't have him die yet. I must first screw the truth out of him."