Having emerged at this point, Mr. Keckwitch
went into the first stationer's shop that he could
see, and bought a ledger. The stationer had
considerable difficulty in supplying him, for the
ledger he required was of a somewhat unusual
shape and size. "It must be oblong," he said,
"plain ruled, and bound in red leather." He
would not have it ruled off in columns for
accounts, and the stationer had none that were
not ruled in that manner. At last he found one
that was quite plain—a mere oblong book of
Bath-post paper bound in purple cloth, with
scarlet leather back and corners; and with this,
although it was not exactly what he wanted,
.Mr. Trefalden's head clerk was forced to
content himself. He also bought a parallel
ruler, a small bottle of ink, and a couple of
quill pens, saying that he would rule the book
himself.

It was now striking seven by Kensington
church clock; and Mr. Keckwitch, who was not
used to going without his tea, inquired his way
to t he nearest coffee-house, which proved to be
in Church-street, close by. It was a modest
little place enough; but he made himself very
comfortable there, establishing himself at a table
at the further end of the room, calling for lights
and a substantial tea, and setting to work at
once upon the ruling of his ledger. When he
had done about a dozen pages, he divided each
into three parts by a couple of vertical lines, and
desired the waiter to bring him the London
Post-Office Directory. But he did not look in
it for Elton House. He had searched for that
some days back, and found no mention of it.
He simply opened it at KENSINGTON HIGH-
STREET, page four hundred and forty-nine, and
proceeded patiently and methodically to copy
out its contents under the several titles of
Name, Address, and Occupation. By the time
that he had thus filled in some four or five
pages, and finished his tea, it was half-past eight
o'clock, and quite dark.

That is to say, it was quite dark in the sky
overhead, but quite brilliant in Kensington
High-street. That picturesque thoroughfare was
lighted up for the evening. The shops blazed
with gas; the pavements were crowded; there
was a brass band playing at the public-house at
the corner; and the very fruit and oyster stalls
in front of the church were bright with lanterns.
The place, in fact, was as light as at noonday,
and Mr. Keckwitch, who wished to avoid observation,
was naturally disturbed, and a good
deal disappointed. 'He had, however, made
up his mind to do a certain thing, and he was
determined to go through with it; so he
pulled his hat a little more over his eyes,
put his ink-bottle and pens in the breast-pocket
of his coat, tucked his ledger under his arm,
and went boldly out in the direction of Slade's-
lane.

He had observed a baker's shop within a few
doors of the corner where the omnibus had set
him down, and this shop was his present
destination. He went in with the assured step of
a man who is about his regular work, touched
his hat to a pleasant-looking woman behind the
counter, and said:

"I am going round, ma'am, for the new
Directory. There's been no change here, I
suppose, since last year?"

"No, sir; no change whatever," she
replied.

Mr. Keckwitch opened his ledger on the
counter, pulled out one of his quill pens, and
drew his fat forefinger down a certain column
of names.

"Wilson, Emma, baker and confectioner,"
said he, reading one of the entries. "Is that
quite right, ma'am?"

"Fancy bread and biscuit baker, if you
please, sir," replied Mrs. Wilson, "not
confectioner."

"Thank you, ma'am. Fancy bread and
biscuit baker."

And Mr. Keckwitch drew his pen through
"confectioner," and substituted Mrs. Wilson's
emendation with a business-like gravity that did
him credit.

"I thought the Post-office Directory for this
year was out already, sir," observed Mrs. Wilson,
as he blotted off the entry, and closed his
ledger.

"This is not the Post-office Directory,
ma'am," said Mr. Keckwitch, calmly. " This
is a new Directory of the Western and
South-Western districts."

"Oh indeed! a sort of new Court Guide, I
suppose?"

"Just so, ma'am. A sort of new Court
Guide. Wish you good evenin'."

"Good evening, sir," replied Mrs. Wilson,
as he again raised his finger half way to the
brim of his hat, and left the shop; he had
scarcely passed the threshold, however, when
he paused, and turned back.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, for troubling
you again," he said, " but perhaps you can tell
me who lives at Elton House?"

"Elton House?"

"Yes; Elton House, in Slade's-lane. I've
been knocking and ringing there till I'm tired,
and can get no one to come to the gate. Is it
uninhabited?"

Mr. Keckwitch said this so naturally, and
with such an air of ill-used respectability, that
detective Kidd himself would scarcely have
doubted the truth of his statement. As for
Mrs. Wilson, she accepted every word of it in
perfect good faith.

"Oh no," she replied, " it is not uninhabited.
The name is Duvernay."

"Duvernay," repeated Mr. Trefalden's head
clerk, re-opening his ledger, and dipping his pen
in Mrs. Wilson's ink. " With your leave, ma'am.
A foreign family, I suppose?"

"I think she is French."

"And Mr. Duvernay—can you tell me what
profession to enter?"

"There is no Mr. Duvernay," said Mrs.
Wilson, with an odd little cough, and a slight
elevation of the eyebrows. " At least, not that
I am aware of."