closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.
'How can I find her?' said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence.
'Only through me,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.
'When?' cried the stranger, hastily.
'To-morrow,' rejoined Bumble.
'At nine in the evening,' said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his agitation; 'at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn't tell you to be secret. It's your interest.'
With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.
On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it.
'What do you want?' cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. 'Following me!'
'Only to ask a question,' said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. 'What name am I to ask for?'
'Monks!' rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.
Containing an account of what passed between Mr. and Mrs Bumble, and Mr. Monks, at their nocturnal interview
IT was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense