The book-stall was on the right, about half-way down the street. Numbers of old books lay upon a board outside, lighted by a flaring, smoking tin lamp. Inside the shop they seemed chiefly to deal in tobacco and snuff. Every now and then the master of the shop--whose name, according to the announcement above the shop, must be Caleb Lee--came to the door to look about him, or to answer the questions of some outside customer touching the books. But as yet I saw no sign of Tom Heriot. Opposite the shop, on the other side the way, was a dark entry; into that entry I ensconced myself to watch. Tired of this at last, I marched to the end of the street, crossed over, strolled back on the other side the way, and halted at the book-stall. There I began to turn the books about: anything to while away the time. "Looking for any book in particular, sir?" I turned sharply at the question, which came from the man Lee. The voice sounded familiar to my ear. Where had I heard it? "You have not an old copy of the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' I suppose?"--the work flashing into my mind by chance. "No, sir. I had one, but it was bought last week. There's 'Fatherless Fanny,' sir; that's a very nice book; it was thought a deal of some years ago. And there's the 'Water Witch,' by Cooper. That's good, too." I remembered the voice now. It was that of Leah's mysterious visitor of the night before, who had been curiously inquisitive about me. Recognition came upon me with a shock, and opened up a new fear. Taking the "Water Witch"--for which I paid fourpence--I walked on again. Could it be possible that _Tom Heriot_ was passing himself off for me? Why, this would be the veriest folly of all. But no; that was altogether impossible. Anxious and uneasy, I turned about again and again. The matter ought to be set at rest, yet I knew not how to do it. I entered the shop, which contained two small counters: the one covered with papers, the other with smoking gear. Lee stood behind the former, serving a customer, who was inquiring for last week's number of the _Fireside Friend_. Behind the other counter sat a young girl, pretty and modest. I turned to her. "Will you give me a packet of bird's-eye?" "Yes, sir," she answered in pleasant tones; and, opening a drawer, handed me the tobacco, ready wrapped up. It would do for Watts. Bird's-eye, I knew, was his favourite mixture. "Thank you, sir," she said, returning me the change out of a florin. "Anything else, sir?" "Yes; a box of wax matches." But the matches were not to be found, and the girl appealed to her father. "Wax matches," returned the man from across the shop. "Why, they are on the shelf behind you, Betsy." The matches were found, the girl took the money for them, and thanked me again. All very properly and modestly. The girl was evidently as modest and well-behaved as a girl could be. So that was Betsy! But who was it that was courting her in my name? One of my office clerks--or Captain Thomas Heriot?