after another emerged from the room behind, and at each step Walter Maynard felt a cold shudder steal over him; and then he started and coloured, lest his agitation should have been observed; but the shopboy was too used to such scenes to heed them. He never looked at the white lip, tremulous with hope, which was rather fear; he noticed not the drops that started on the forehead; what little attention he could spare from his business was given to the window; there, at least, he had the satisfaction of seeing the people passing. At last Walter Maynard's turn came: he entered a low, dark back-parlour, whose close and murky atmosphere seemed ominous; a little man was seated on a very high stool, writing at a desk before him.
"Take a seat, Mr. Maynard," said he, in a low mysterious whisper, as if the fate of nations depended on not being overheard. He went on writing, and Walter took his seat, glad of even a momentary respite.
Curl was of very small stature, with good but restless features, and a singularly undecided
