the enjoyments which he could not afford, sinking lower and lower, becoming daily more and more pinched, more wretched, more dependent. A miserable outlook: a wretched dream.

CHAPTER IX.

HOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS.

'I HAD almost forgotten Mr. Bragge,' said Augustus, opening one of his letters the next morning.

This was a note from the private detective, stating that the last clue which promised remarkably well had terminated with no useful result; in fact, it ended with a labouring man who was suffering from delirium tremens. He regretted that this research had turned out so badly, but, he added, another clue had been discovered, the nature of which he would for the moment

keep secret.

He proposed to follow this up vigorously; he had no doubt that it would end in a complete solution of the case. Meanwhile, he enclosed an account of his expenditure up to date, and would be obliged if Mr. Hamblin would send him another cheque for twenty pounds on

account.

It was a dreadful blow for Mr. Theodore Bragge when he received a settlement in full of his account, with the information that the case was now closed, and his services would be no more required. He had long made up his mind that there was nothing to find out, and that he might go on for the rest of his natural life, following up clues at a large salary with a percentage, so to speak, on his expenditure. Meat and drink-especially drink-the case had been to him. He will never, he owns with tears, again find employers so generous as the firm of Anthony Hamblin and Co.

The day was Wednesday, which was young Nick's half-holiday.

He resolved to spend it with the writingmaster, but thought he would drop in at the office first. In fact, after taking a turn round Lower Thames Street, Idol Lane, Eastcheap, Rood Lane, and a few other places dear to a boy of imagination, where the stream of Pactolus runs with the deepest, strongest, and yellowest current, he found himself in the square of Great St. Simon Apostle, about half-past two in the afternoon. He exchanged a few compliments in whispers with the junior clerks, and then mounted the broad stairs, and began to ramble idly about the passages. He passed with reverence the doors of Mr. Augustus and Mr. William Hamblin, the partners, and presently stood before that on which was still to be read the name of Mr. Anthony Hamblin. He shook his head gravely at sight of this. Then his

eyes lit up, and his white eyebrows lifted, and his pink face shone with mirth and mischief, and he laughed in silence, shaking all over in enjoyment of the imaginary situation.

'If they knew,' he murmured; 'if they only knew!'

Then he turned the handle softly, and looked into the room.

No one was there: the room had not been used since the death of its owner: the familiar furniture was there, the oldfashioned, heavy, oaken table, without cover, which had probably been built for the very first Anthony, remained in its old place, with the wooden chair in which the last Anthony had been wont to sit, and the blotting-pad which he had used, before it. In one corner stood a low screen of ancient workmanship, also a family heirloom. There were portraits of successive Anthonys on the wainscoted walls, and there was a