"Not exactly. Have you seen - ah! there he is. The very man I
want."

With which Sir Norman Kingsley dropped a gold piece into the
girl's extended palm, and pushed on through the crowd up Paul's
Walk. A tall, dark figure was leaning moodily with folded arms,
looking fixedly at the ground, and taking no notice of the busy
scene around him until Sir Norman laid his ungloved and jeweled
hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Good morning, Ormiston. I had an idea I would find you here,
and - but what's the matter with you, man? Have you got the
plague? or has your mysterious inamorata jilted you? or what
other annoyance has happened to make you look as woebegone as old
King Lear, sent adrift by his tender daughters to take care of
himself?"

The individual addressed lifted his head, disclosing a dark and
rather handsome face, settled now into a look of gloomy
discontent. He slightly raised his hat as he saw who his
questioner was.

"Ah! it's you, Sir Norman! I had given up all notion of your
coming, and was about to quit this confounded babel - this
tumultuous den of thieves. What has detained you?"

"I was on duty at Whitehall. Are we not in time to keep our
appointment?"