I, too, looked up at it with a strange interest, impressed by something
gloomy and forbidding in its aspect. The windows were shuttered from
basement to attic, and no sign of life was visible. Silent, neglected,
desolate, it breathed an air of tragedy. It seemed to mourn in sackcloth
and ashes for its lost master. The massive door within the splendid
carven portico was crusted with grime, and seemed to have passed out of
use as completely as the ancient lamp-irons or the rusted extinguishers
wherein the footmen were wont to quench their torches when some
Bellingham dame was borne up the steps in her gilded chair, in the days
of good Queen Anne.

It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that we presently turned away
and started homeward by way of Great Ormond Street. My companion was
deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that sombreness of manner
that had so impressed me when I first met her. Nor was I without a
certain sympathetic pensiveness; as if, from the great, silent house,
the spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bear us company.

But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last we
arrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham halted
and held out her hand.

"Good-bye," she said; "and many, many thanks for your invaluable help.
Shall I take the bag?"

"If you want it. But I must take out the note-books."

"Why must you take them?" she asked.

"Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into longhand?"