the condemned cell; a chance, and a good chance, but for that same
cursed lawyer. Ugh! how cold it was, and how I hated _him_ for it!

There was a little whitewashed cottage on the edge of the moorland
just after the hedgerows ceased--the last house before the barren
heath began, standing a full three hundred yards from any other
dwelling. Its front faced the road, and at the back an outhouse and
a wretched garden jutted out on the waste land. There was a light in
each of its windows tonight, and as I passed down the road I heard
the dismal music of a flute.

Perhaps it was this that jogged my thoughts and woke them up to my
present pass. At any rate, I had not gone more than twenty yards
before I turned and made for the door. The people might give me a
night's lodging in the outhouse; at any rate, they would not refuse a
crust to stay the fast which I had not broken since the morning.
I tapped gently with my knuckles on the door, and listened.

I waited five minutes, and no one answered. The flute still
continued its melancholy tune; it was evidently in the hands of a
learner, for the air (a dispiriting one enough at the best) kept
breaking off suddenly and repeating itself. But the performer had
patience, and the sound never ceased for more than two seconds at a
time. Besides this, nothing could be heard. The blinds were drawn
in all the windows. The glow of the candles through them was
cheerful enough, but nothing could be seen of the house inside.
I knocked a second time, and a third, with the same result.
Finally, tired of this, I pushed open the low gate which led into the
garden behind, and stole round to the back of the cottage.