A WHITE HAND AND A BLACK
THUMB.

IN THIRTEEN CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

ON the twelfth of March, one thousand seven
hundred and sixty-seven, Mr. Basil Humpage,
merchant and banking-agent, departed from his
mansion, shaded by three big elms, in the rural
precinct of Jermyn-street, London, and never
returned.

It may illustrate his unexampled regularity to
mention that, at the expiration of four minutes
from the usual time of the merchant's appearance
at his office in Cripplegate, the old head
clerk turned pale, slid feebly down from his
stool, and became temporarily incapacitated from
business. He tottered up and down with nervous
steps, pausing at every turn, now to gaze half
incredulously at the clock, now to peer through
the glass partition which shut off his chief's apartment
from the general office, as if he thought
it less improbable that that gentleman should
have shot up furtively through the cellarage,
than be missing altogether from his place. For
it was a well-known fancy of the worthy old
merchant, who was frequently before, never
after, his time, to loiter about the door, in such
a manner that, with the last stroke of nine from
the office clock, he might insert his latch-key,
and with a general nod, and a "Good morning,
Middlemiss" to the head clerk, assume his
accustomed seat, and commence the duties of the
day.

Although Mr. Middlemiss was not a man
given to superstitious fancies, it might certainly
seem from his bearing on this occasion that the
prophetic whisper which sometimes reaches us—
who knows from what remote birthplace?— far
outspeeding all rational argument for anxiety,
had awakened in him a conviction of misfortune
with which his reason refused to contend. At
all events, at ten minutes past nine, the head
clerk summoned his best messenger, usually
reserved for hurried and important missions, and
despatched him, on foot indeed, but at double
hackney-coach pace, to the house of Three Elms.

We shall get there before him.

Mr. Humpage had risen, that long-remembered
morning, at his accustomed hour—half-
past six. There was nothing remarkable in his
demeanour or conduct, except that, on rising, he
kissed his wife; a circumstance which that lady
attributed to their having had a little tiff overnight.
The misunderstanding had not been of a
serious character, having reference simply to the
question whether Polly-my-Lamb should be
condemned to wear frilled pantaloons for six months
longer, or pass at once into long short-waisted
gowns like her mother's. Sleep had interposed,
and left the point undecided.

Polly-my-Lamb was the only child of Basil and
Alethea Humpage. The name was of her father's
sole invention, but had been adopted, first
cautiously, then freely, by the entire
neighbourhood.

The chocolate was ready at half-past seven.
Mr. Humpage not appearing, a maid went to his
dressing-room door, and announced that her
mistress was waiting breakfast; to which he
returned no answer. Another ten minutes, and
maid Kezia went again, knocked, and repeated
her message. Still no reply.

Polly-my-Lamb was the next ambassador.
The maid had met her on the stairs, and begged
her to speak to master, as she, Kezia, could not
make him hear.

The little girl came flying back, with her
violet eyes swimming in tears—she could hardly
tell why; perhaps it was from peeping through
the keyhole, perhaps it was because, for the
first time in his life, papa had been deaf to the
voice of his darling. At all events, he had locked
his door, and would make no audible reply. Was
he there? Yes, certainly. Nor could he have
been seized with any sudden illness; for she had
heard his familiar step move steadily across the
room, and had further recognised the peculiar
creak pertaining to a particular drawer in his
dressing-table, as he opened and reclosed it.

Past eight o'clock. It had now become a
matter of impossibility for the punctual merchant
to eat his breakfast and appear at his office at
the accustomed time, and a suppressed alarm
began to extend through the household. Even
deaf Stephen, the footman-butler, whose great
red ears had for the last thirty winters been
simply ornamental, and who was in the habit of
relying for his knowledge of passing events
purely upon his own skill in physiognomy, perfectly
understood that something was amiss, and