"Clever man that Mr.--Mr. Larkin--vastly clever," said Lord Verney. "I rather think there's a great deal in what he says--it's very disgusting--about it; but one must consider, you know--there's no harm in considering--and--and that Mr.--Dong--Dingleton, isn't it?--about it--a most offensive person. I must consider--I shall think it over, and give him my ideas to-morrow." Cleve did not like an expression which had struck him in the attorney's face that day, and he proposed next day to write to Mr. Dingwell, and actually did so, requesting that he would be so good as to call at Verney House. Mr. Dingwell did not come; but a note came by post, saying that the writer, Mr. Dingwell, was not well enough to venture a call. What I term Mr. Larkin's rat-like eyes, and a certain dark and even wicked look that crosses the attorney's face, when they appear, had left a profound sense of uncertainty in Cleve's mind respecting that gentleman's character and plans. It was simply a conviction that the attorney meditated something odd about Mr. Dingwell, and that no good man could look as he had looked. There was no use in opening his suspicion, grounded on so slight a thing as a look, to his uncle, who, though often timid and hesitating, and in secret helpless, and at his wits' end for aid in arriving at a decision, was yet, in a matter where vanity was concerned, or a strong prejudice or caprice involved, often incredibly obstinate. Mr. Larkin's look teased Cleve. Larkin might grow into an influence very important to that young gentleman, and was not lightly to be quarrelled with. He would not quarrel with him; but he would see Dingwell, if indeed that person were still in London; a fact about which he had begun to have some odd misgivings. The note was written in a straight, cramp hand, and Mr. Larkin's face was in the background always. He knew Mr. Dingwell's address; an answer, real or forged, had reached him from it. So, full of dark dreams and conjectures, he got into a cab, and drove to the entrance of Rosemary Court, and knocked at Miss Sarah Rumble's door. That good lady, from the shadow, looked suspiciously on him. "Is Mr. Dingwell at home?" "Mr. Dingwell, sir?" she repeated. "Yes. Is he at home?" "Mr. Dingwell, sir? _No_ sir." "Does not Mr. Dingwell live here?" "There _was_ a gentleman, please, sir, with a name like that. Go _back_, child," she said, sharply to Lucy Maria, who was peeping in the background, and who might not be edified, perhaps, by the dialogue. "Beg parding, sir," she continued, as the child disappeared; "they _are_ so tiresome! There was an old gentleman lodging here, sir, please, which his name was like that I do remember." Cleve Verney did not know what to think. "Is there anyone in the house who knows Mr. Dingwell? I've come to be of use to him; perhaps he could see me. Will you say Mr. Verney?" "Mr.--_what_, sir, please?" "Verney--here's my card; perhaps it is better."