ham High Street, looking at the many quaint gables of the Nuns' House, and getting through the time as she best can until nine o'clock; at which hour she has reason to suppose that the arriving omnibus passengers may have some interest for her. The friendly darkness, at that hour, renders it easy for her to ascertain whether this be so or not; and it is so, for the passenger not to be missed twice arrives among the rest.
"Now, let me see what becomes of you. Go on!"
An observation addressed to the air. And yet it might be addressed to the passenger, so compliantly does he go on along the High Street until he comes to an arched gateway, at which he unexpectedly vanishes. The poor soul quickens her pace; is swift, and close upon him entering under the gateway; but only sees a postern staircase on one side of it, and on the other side an ancient vaulted room, in which a large-headed, grey-haired gentleman is writing, under the odd circumstances of sitting open to the thoroughfare and eyeing all who pass, as if he were toil-taker of the gateway: though the way is free.
"Halloa!" he cries in a low voice, seeing her brought to a standstill: "who are you looking for?"
"There was a gentleman passed in here this minute, sir."
"Of course there was. What do you want with him?"
"Where do he live, deary?"
"Live? Up that staircase."
"Bless ye! Whisper. What's his name, deary?"
"Surname Jasper, Christian name John. Mr. John Jasper."
"Has he a calling, good gentleman?"
"Calling? Yes. Sings in the choir."
"In the spire?"
"Choir."
"What's that?"
Mr. Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his doorstep. "Do you know what a cathedral is?" he asks, jocosely.
The woman nods.
"What is it?"
She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a definition, when it occurs to her that it is easier to point out the substantial object itself, massive against the dark-blue sky and the early stars.
"That's the answer. Go in there at seven to-morrow morning, and you may see Mr, John Jasper, and hear him too."
"Thank ye! Thank ye!"
The burst of triumph in which she thanks him, does not escape the notice of the single buffer of an easy temper living idly on his means. He glances at her; clasps his hands behind him, as the wont of such buffers is; and lounges along the echoing precincts at her side.
"Or," he suggests, with a backward hitch of his head, "you can go up at once to Mr. Jasper's rooms there."
The woman eyes him with a cunning smile, and shakes her head.
"Oh! You don't want to speak to him?"
