Upon finding themselves in this temple of Momus, and observing that its peculiar arrangement of sunshine made their complexions look as though they had been dead a few days, Gospeler SIMPSON and the Flowerpot involuntarily spoke in whispers behind their hands.

“Does that room belong to your establishment, also, BENTHAM?” whispered the Gospeler, pointing rather fearfully, as he spoke, towards a side-door leading apparently into an adjoining’ apartment.

“Yes,” was the low response.

“Is there—­is there anybody dead in there?” whispered Mr. SIMPSON, tremulously.

“No.—­Not yet”

“Then,” whispered the Ritualistic clergyman, “you might step in there, Miss POTTS, and have your interview with Miss PENDRAGON, whom Mr. BENTHAM will, I am sure, cause to be summoned from up-stairs.”

The assistant-editor of the Comic Paper stealing softly from the office to call the other young lady down, Mr. JEREMY BENTHAM made a sign that FLORA should follow him to the supplementary room indicated; his low-spirited manner being as though he had said:  “If you wish to look at the body, miss, I will now show you the way.”

Leaving the Gospeler lost in dark abstraction near the black mantel, the Flowerpot allowed the sexton of the establishment to conduct her funereally into the place assigned for her interview, and stopped aghast before a huge black object standing therein.

“What’s this?” she gasped, almost hysterically.

“Only a safe,” said Mr. BENTHAM, with inexplicable bitterness of tone.  “Merely our fire-and-burglar-proof receptacle for the money constantly pouring in from first-class American Comic journalism.”—­Here Mr. BENTHAM slapped his forehead passionately, checked something like a sob in his throat, and abruptly returned to the main office.

Scarcely, however, had he closed the door of communication behind him, when another door, opening from the hall, was noiselessly unlatched, and MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON glided into the arms of her friend.

“FLORA!” murmured the Southern girl, “I can scarcely credit my eyes!  It seems so long since we last met!  You’ve been getting a new bonnet, I see.”

“It’s like an absurd dream!” responded the Flowerpot, wonderingly caressing her.  “I’ve thought of you and your poor, ridiculous brother twenty times a day.  How much you must have gone through here!  Are they wearing skirts full, or scant, this season?”

“About medium, dear.  But how do you happen to be here, in Mr. BENTHAM’S office?”

In answer to this question, FLORA related all that bad happened at Bumsteadville and since her flight from thence; concluding by warning MAGNOLIA, that her possession of a black alpaca waist, slightly worn, had subjected her to the ominous suspicion of the Ritualistic organist.

“I scorn and defy the suspicions of that enemy of the persecuted South, and high-handed wooer of exclusively Northern women!” exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, vehemently.  “Is this Mr. BENTHAM married?”