“I--I know the author’s name quite well,” said the boy, disregarding this reproof, for his mind was reverting now to the little room, which already he seemed to have left an epoch ago. “The name begins with the letter M. M--Mi--Mil--it is the street of Milton!” “Milton Street--vendor of old books in Milton Street. What number?” “N-number!” muttered the boy blankly. “N-number. Oh yes! The number of the shop of my father is the number of the year in which Ovid was born.” “Hovvid!” said the bald-headed man impatiently. “Who the ’ell’s Hovvid? Do you know, Harby, who Hovvid is?” “Not I!” said a solemn, grey-headed police constable. “Do you know, Pearson?” “Hovvid!” said a police constable with mutton-chop whiskers. “Can’t say as ’ow I do. Sounds like the name of a ’oss.” “Do you mean, my lad,” said the bald-headed man, “the number o’ the year a ’oss o’ the name of Hovvid won the Derby?” “A ’oss o’ the name of Hovvid never did win the Derby,” said the police constable with mutton-chop whiskers decisively. “Ovid is one of the chief among the Roman authors,” said the boy. For the moment everything else had yielded to the astonishment he felt that all these imposing, austere, and strikingly-dressed street-persons should not know who Ovid was. “Get the directory, Harby,” said the bald-headed man, “and look up the year in which Hovvid was born. You were right, Gravener; he is a bit touched.” “Coorse I’m right,” said Gravener. “Anybody with ’alf a heye can see that.” “Ovid was born in the year 43 before Christ,” said the boy. “The number of the shop of my father is forty-three.” “Then why couldn’t you say so at first, my lad, and save all this parley?” said the bald-headed man sternly. “What’s in Number One, Harby?” “A drunk and incapable, and a petty larceny.” “Better put him in there for to-night.” The boy was led into a room somewhat similar to that in which his clothes had been taken off. But this apartment seemed not only larger and more cheerless, but also very much darker. The only means by which daylight could get in was through a narrow window high up in the wall, and this was barred with iron. The few beams that were able to struggle through seemed merely to render everything malign and hideous. The boy, who from his first hour in the world had had an overpowering horror of the darkness, shuddered in every vein when he discovered that he was alone, and irrevocably committed to it for a nameless term. After the first trance of his terror had passed he was able to discern that a settle ran along the side of the wall. Hardly daring to move, he crept towards it. As he did so he stumbled over something. It was warm and soft. Something alive was lying on the floor. It was a shapeless mass. He could hear it breathing.