I am afraid to say how many hours he sat smoking and musing, in the vain hope that she, or Gideon Rolfe, or someone would come to tell him something about it; but at last he realized that she had indeed flown; that the nest which had contained the beautiful bird was empty and void; and with a heart that felt like lead, he set out for Wermesley.
By chance, more than calculation, he caught the up-train, and was whirled into London.
Weary, exhausted rather, he signaled a hansom, and was driven to Spider Court.
Spider Court is not an easy place to find. It is in the heart of the Temple, and consists of about ten houses, every one of which, like a Chinese puzzle, contains a number of houses within itself.
Barristers--generally briefless--inhabit Spider Court; but it is the refuge of the hard-working literary man, and of the members of that strange class which is always waiting for "something to turn up."
Jack ascended the stairs of No. 5, passed various doors bearing the names of the occupants on the other side of them, and opened a door which bore the legend:
painted in small black letters on its cross-panel.
It was not a large room, and it was plainly furnished; but it looked comfortable. Its contents looked rather incongruous.
At the end of the room, close by the window, which only allowed about four hours of daylight to enter it, stood a table crowded with papers, presenting that appearance which ladies generally call "a litter." The table and book-shelf, filled with heavy-looking volumes, would give one the impression that the room belonged to a barrister or a literary man, if it were not for a set of boxing-gloves and a pair of fencing foils, which hung over the fireplace, and the prints of ballet-girls and famous actresses which adorned the walls.
As Jack entered the room, a man, who was sitting at the table, turned his head, and peering through the gloom which a single candle only served to emphasize, exclaimed:
The speaker was the Leonard Dagle whose name appeared conjointly with Jack's on the door of the chambers.
Seen by the light of the single candle, Leonard Dagle looked handsome; it was left for the daylight to reveal the traces which life's battle had cut in his regular features. One had only to glance at the face to be reminded of the old saying of the sword wearing the scabbard. It was the face of a man who had fought the hard fight of one hand against the world, and had not yet won the victory.
