Not a word more was spoken until, after a cool Christmas stroll of about eight and a quarter miles, the whole party stood before Judge Sweeney in the house of the latter.  There, when the story had been sorrowfully repeated by the Gospeler, Mr. Bumstead exhibited the core of the apple, and tickled the magistrate almost into hysterics by whispering very closely in his ear, that it was a core curiously similar to that of the last apple eaten by his nephew; and, having been found in an apple from the prisoner’s satchel, might be useful in evidence.  Judge Sweeney wished to know if Mr. Pendragon had any political relations, or could influence any votes? and, upon being answered in the negative, eyed the young man sternly, and said that appearances were decidedly against him.  He could not exactly commit him to jail without accusation, although the apple-core and his political unimportance subjected him to grave suspicion:  but he should hold the Gospeler responsible for the youth’s appearance at any time when his presence should be required.  Mr. Bumstead, whose eyes were becoming very glassy, then suggested that a handbill should be at once printed and circulated, to the effect that there had been Lost, or Stolen, two Black Alpaca Nephews, about 5 feet 8 inches high, with a bone handle, light eyes and hair, and whalebone ribs; and that if the said Edwin would return, with a brass ferule slightly worn, the finder should receive earnest thanks, and be seen safely to his home by J. Bumstead.  Mr. Gospeler Simpson and Judge Sweeney agreed that a handbill should be issued:  but thought it might confuse the public mind if the missing nephew and the lost umbrella were not kept separate.

“Has either ’f you gen’l’men ever been ’n Uncle?” asked the Ritualistic organist, with dark intensity.

They shook their heads.

“Then,” said Mr. Bumstead, with great force,—­“Then, gen’l’men, you-knownor-wahritis-to-lose-’n-umbrella!”

Before they could decide in their weaker minds what the immediate connection was, he had left them, at a sharp slant, in great intellectual disturbance, and was passing out through the entry-way with both his hands against the wall.

Early next morning, while young Mr. Pendragon was locked in his room, startled and wretched, the inconsolable uncle of Edwin DROOD was energetically ransacking every part of Bumsteadville for the missing man.  House after house he visited, like some unholy inspector:  peering up chimneys, prodding under carpets, and staying a long time in cellars where there was cider.  Not a bit of paper or cloth blew along the turnpike but he eagerly picked it up, searched in it with the most anxious care, and finally placed it in his hat.  Going to the Pond, with a borrowed hatchet, he cut a bole in the thick ice, lost the hatchet, and, after bathing his head in the water, declared