servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, “’Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little mad master — it is a bitter thought — and I had come to love thee so! No! by book and bell, not lost! Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I find thee again.

Poor child, yonder is his breakfast — and mine, but I have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it — speed, speed! that is the word!” As he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge he several times said to himself — clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing one — ”He grumbled, but he went — he went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it,