I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to
depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked
wistfully into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time
directed my steps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and
stopped and listened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the
grave.

Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all
possible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and robberies
and even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensure if I turned
my back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the
street brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed
the road and looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise
had not come from there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as
before.

There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and
pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by,
and now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he
reeled homewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and
soon ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down,
promising myself that every time should be the last, and breaking
faith with myself on some new plea as often as I did so.

The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks
and bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I
had a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good
purpose. I had only come to know the fact through the innocence of
the child, and though the old man was by at the time, and saw my
undisguised surprise, he had preserved a strange mystery upon the