out of the window. It told him, however, absolutely nothing of the
secret he was trying to wring from her.

There was no square in Chellaston, no part of the long street much
wider than any other or more convenient as a public lounging place.
Here, in front of the hotel, was perhaps the most open spot, and
Harkness hoped the old man would make a stand here and preach; but he
turned aside and went down a small side street, so Harkness, who had no
desire to identify himself too publicly with his strange _protégé_, was
forced to leave to the curiosity of others the observation of his
movements.

The curiosity of people in the street also seemed to abate. The more
respectable class of people are too proud to show interest in the same
way that gaping children show it, and most people in this village
belonged to the more respectable class. Those who had come to doors or
windows on the street retired from them just as Harkness had done; those
out in the street went on their ways, with the exception of two men of
the more demonstrative sort, who went and looked down the alley after
the stranger, and called out jestingly to some one in it.

Then the old man stopped, and, with his face still upturned, as if blind
to everything but pure light, took up his position on one side of the
narrow street. He had only gone some forty paces down it. A policeman,
coming up in front of the hotel, looked on, listening to the jesters.
Then he and they drew a little nearer, the children who had followed
stood round, one man appeared at the other end of the alley. On either
side the houses were high and the windows few, but high up in the hotel
there was a small window that lighted a linen press, and at that small
window, with the door of the closet locked on the inside, Eliza stood