"Ask your pardon, sir," said red jacket, tossing his sculls into the rowlocks, "that's a queer place for a gentleman to want." "Pull away, friend," answered the fare, who was not in a colloquial humour, and discouraged the talkativeness of Dogget's prizeman. It was a delightful April morning, and the trim wherry sped steadily and swiftly over the bright water, unmolested by those floating omnibusses which of late years have increased the utility and diminished the pleasantness of London's noble river. Past the grey fortress, founded by Archbishop Baldwin, as a refuge from the indignity of personal conflicts with his monks at Canterbury, swept the boat, and drew up alongside some stairs not very far beyond. Rereworth bade the waterman await his return, and accepted the offer of "Jack" to conduct him to the place he sought. So guided, Seymour proceeded up a narrow and unpaved lane, between high and irregular palisades; beyond which, on either hand, kilns were at work, emitting fumes far from agreeable. This passage led to a winding street, scarcely wider than itself, from which lofty windowless walls nearly excluded the light of day, and bespoke industry busy within. The dwelling-houses were mostly dingy and dismal in appearance, but at intervals might be seen one neater than usual, in whose casements a few unfortunate flowers--luxuries wherewith we have lately been surprised to learn the children of labour have no concern--lamented the absence of the sun. Rereworth's guide pointed along this uninviting thoroughfare to a sign at no great distance, and told him that was the place for which he had inquired. It was a public-house of disreputable aspect. Seymour set his foot in the vile tavern with some repugnance, and had not replied to the question--what he would please to take--when it was answered for him by the voice of the man who had invited him to the rendezvous. "Brandy," Everope said, and beckoned Rereworth into the parlour from which he had emerged. Seymour obeyed the signal, marvelling and sorrowing at the changed appearance of the spendthrift. It was not improved since his meeting with Michael Sinson in the park. Then he was miserable, now he was desperate. The recklessness was upon him which follows the loss of hope. With an eager but trembling hand he lifted a glass of the fire-water to his scarlet lips, and seemed to drink with the thirst of Tantalus. His visitor, shocked and distressed, could not utter a word.