I was at the station-house the night Uncle David came in. He was
always called Uncle David, even by the urchins who followed him in
the street; so I am showing him no disrespect, gentleman though he
is, by giving him a title which as completely characterized him in
those days, as did his moody ways, his quaint attire and the
persistence with which he kept at his side his great mastiff, Rudge.
I had long since heard of the old gentleman as one of the most
interesting residents of the precinct. I had even seen him more
than once on the avenue, but I had never before been brought face
to face with him, and consequently had much too superficial a
knowledge of his countenance to determine offhand whether the
uneasy light in his small gray eyes was natural to them, or simply
the result of present excitement. But when he began to talk I
detected an unmistakable tremor in his tones, and decided that he
was in a state of suppressed agitation; though he appeared to have
nothing more alarming to impart than the fact that he had seen a
light burning in some house presumably empty.

It was all so trivial that I gave him but scant attention till he
let a name fall which caused me to prick up my ears and even to
put in a word. "The Moore house," he had said.

"The Moore house?" I repeated in amazement. "Are you speaking of
the Moore house?"

A thousand recollections came with the name.

"What other?" he grumbled, directing toward me a look as keen as it
was impatient. "Do you think that I would bother myself long about