Wood is now in very affluent circumstances.  He stuck to the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion.  When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—­to deal frankly with you,—­he placed me in them rent-free, for, I’m not ashamed to confess it, I’ve had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know where I should have been.  Mr. Wood, Sir,” he added, with much emotion, “is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—­” and he hesitated.

“Well, Sir?” cried the other, eagerly.

“His wife is still living,” returned Kneebone, drily.

“I understand,” replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile.  “But, it strikes me, I’ve heard that Mrs. Wood was once a favourite of yours.”

“So she was,” replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—­“so she was.  But those days are over—­quite over.  Since her husband has laid me under such a weight of obligation, I couldn’t, in honour, continue—­hem!” and he took another explanatory pinch.  “Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—­hem!”

“Say no more on the subject, Sir,” observed the stranger, gravely; “but let us turn to a more agreeable one—­her daughter.”

“That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess,” returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk.

The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.

“Is she married?” he asked, after a brief pause.

“Married!—­no—­no,” replied the woollen-draper.  “Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead.  When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory.”

“You astonish me,” said the stranger, in a voice full of emotion.

“Why it is astonishing, certainly,” remarked Kneebone, “to find any woman constant—­especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case.  She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting.  But she was not to be tempted.”

“She is a matchless creature!” exclaimed the young man.

“So I think,” replied Kneebone, again applying to the snuff-box, and by that means escaping the angry glance levelled at him by his companion.

“I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir,” said the stranger, as soon as he had conquered his displeasure, “and I will then trouble you no further.  You spoke just now of a youth whom Mr. Wood brought up.  As far as I recollect, there were two.  What has become of the other?”

“Why, surely you don’t mean Jack Sheppard?” cried the woollen-draper in surprise.