"I think he is a little deranged," said I, sadly.

"Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that
friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and
genteel-like, them forgers. I can't pity'em--can't help it, sir. Did
you know Monroe Edwards?" he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying
his hand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, "he died of consumption at
Sing-Sing. So you weren't acquainted with Monroe?"

"No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot
stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I
will see you again."

Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and
went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding
him.

"I saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may be
he's gone to loiter in the yards."

So I went in that direction.

"Are you looking for the silent man?" said another turnkey passing me.
"Yonder he lies--sleeping in the yard there. 'Tis not twenty minutes
since I saw him lie down."

The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common
prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all
sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon