Hampshire, did the little convalescent from Camberwell
and her parent proceed. Bessy gathered
shells and sea weed, and bought sand pictures
on cardboard by the Undercliff, and sand in
bottles, and saw the donkey at Carisbroke
Castle, and wondered at Little St. Lawrence
Church, and the magnificent yachting dandies
at Cowes and Ryde, until her pale face grew
quite rosy, and her dark eyes had something
of a sparkle in them. Her mamma lay on the
sofa as usual, exhausted the stock of
sentimental novels in the Ventnor circulating
library, varying these home occupations
occasionally by taking exercise in a wheel-chair,
and "nagging " at Bessy. The pair came
back to London together, and were at the
little mansion at Camberwell about a week
before quarter-day. The peccant Simcox had
been exemplarily abstemious during their
absence; but his daughters had not been able
to avoid remarking that he was silent,
reserved, and anxious looking. You see he had
to pay such heavy interest for the ten pounds
he had borrowed of the chief clerk.

Three days before quarter-day, it was ten
minutes to eight P. M., and Bessy Simcox was
waiting for her father. She was confident,
hopeful, cheerful now; she thanked God for
her illness and the change it had wrought in
her dear papa. Ten minutes to eight, and a
hot summer's evening. She was watching the
lamp-lighter going round with his ladder and
his little glimmering lantern, when she was
accosted by one of Mr. Braddlescroggs's
porters. He was an ugly, forbidding man, with
a vicious-looking fur cap (such as porters of
workhouses and wicked skippers of colliers
wear), and had never before saluted or spoken
to her. She began to tremble violently when
John Malingerer (a special favourite of the
Beast's, if he could have favoured any one,
and supposed to be a porter after his own
heart), addressed her.

"Hi!" said the porter, "you're wanted."

"Me—wanted? Where? By whom?"
stammered Bessy.

Bessy followed him, still trembling. The
porter walked before her, looming like the
genius of Misfortune. He led her through
dingy wareroom after wareroom, counting
house after counting house, where the clerks
all were silent and subdued. He led her at
last into a dingy sanctum, dimly lighted by
one shaded lamp. In this safe there were
piles of dingy papers and more dingy ledgers;
with great piles of accounts on hooks in
the wall, with their long iron necks and
white bodies, like ghosts of dead bills who
had hanged themselves; a huge iron safe
throwing hideous shadows against the wall,
and three silent men.

That is to say:

John Simcox, white, trembling, and with
wild eyes.

The Beast, neither more nor less a Beast
than he usually was.

A tall man with a very sharp shirt collar,
great coat, a black stock; very thin iron
grey hair; a face which looked as if it had
once been full of wrinkles and furrows
which had been half ironed out; very peculiar
and very heavy boots, brown Berlin
gloves, and a demeanour which confirmed
you immediately in a conviction that were
you to strike at him violently with a sledge
hammer, his frame would give forth in
response no fleshy "thud," but a hard metallic
ring.

The Beast was standing up: his back
against a tall desk on spectral legs, his hands
in his pockets. So also, standing, in a corner,
was Simcox. So also, not exactly
anywhere but somewhere, somehow, and about
Simcox, and about Bessy, and particularly
about the door and the iron safe, in which
he seemed to take absorbing interest, was
the tall man in the peculiar boots.

"Come here, my girl," said the grating
voice of Barnard Braddlescroggs the Beast.

My girl came there, to the foot of a table,
as she was desired. She heard the grating
voice; she heard, much louder, the beating
of her own heart; she heard, loudest of all,
a dreadful voice crying within her, crying
over and over again that papa had borrowed
ten pounds, and that he would have to pay
very heavy interest for it, and that quarter
day would soon come round, soon come
round.

"This person's name is Lurcher," pursued
the Beast.

The person coughed. The cough struck
on the girl's heart like a knell. One.

"He is an officer."

An officer of what? Of the Household
Brigade; of the yeomanry cavalry; of the
Sheriff of Middlesex's batallion, a custom-
house officer, a naval officer, a relieving
officer? But Bessy knew in a moment.
She might have known it at first from the
peculiar boots the officer wore—boots as no
other officer, or man, or woman can wear.
But her own heart told her. It said plainly:
"This is a police officer, and he has come to
take your father into custody."

It was all told directly. Oh Bessy, Bessy!
The ten pounds borrowed from the chief
clerk, for which he would have to pay such
heavy interest. The ten pounds were
borrowed from the Petty Cash. The miserable
Simcox's account was fifteen pounds
deficient; he had promised to refund the money
on quarter-day; he had begged and prayed
for time; the Beast was inexorable, and
Lurcher, the officer, was there to take him
to prison for embezzlement.

"You daughter of this man," said the
Beast, "you must go home without him.
You tell his wife and the rest of his people,
that I have locked him up, and that I'll
transport him, for robbery."

"Robbery, no, sir," cried poor Simcox from
the corner. "Before God, no! It was only
for—