blown out.  In truth he secretly rejoiced that proof of the imperfect sanity of the suicides had come to light and assured himself that when he did away with Mike Fletcher, that he would revenge himself on society by leaving behind him a document which would forbid the usual idiotic verdict, “Suicide while in a state of temporary insanity,” and leave no loophole through which it might be said that he was impelled to seek death for any extraneous reasons whatever.  He would go to death in the midst of the most perfect worldly prosperity the mind could conceive, desiring nothing but rest, profoundly convinced of the futility of all else, and the perfect folly of human effort.

In such perverse and morbid mind Mike returned to London.  It was in the beginning of August, and the Temple weltered in sultry days and calm nights.  The river flowed sluggishly through its bridges; the lights along its banks gleamed fiercely in the lucent stillness of a sulphur-hued horizon.  Like a nightmare the silence of the apartment lay upon his chest; and there was a frightened look in his eyes as he walked to and fro.  The moon lay like a creole amid the blue curtains of the night; the murmur of London hushed in stray cries, and only the tread of the policeman was heard distinctly.  About the river the night was deepest, and out of the shadows falling from the bridges the lamps gleamed with strange intensity, some flickering sadly in the water.  Mike walked into the dining-room.  He could see the sward in the darkness that the trees spread, and the lilies reeked in the great stillness.  Then he thought of the old days when the Pilgrim was written in these rooms, and of the youthfulness of those days; and he maddened when he recalled the evenings of artistic converse in John Norton’s room—­how high were then their aspirations!  The Temple, too, seemed to have lost youth and gaiety.  No longer did he meet his old friends in the eating-houses and taverns.  Everything had been dispersed or lost.  Some were married, some had died.

Then the solitude grew more unbearable and he turned from it, hoping he might meet some one he knew.  As he passed up Temple Lane he saw a slender woman dressed in black, talking to the policemen.  He had often seen her about the Courts and Buildings, and had accosted her, but she had passed without heeding.  Curious to hear who and what she was, Mike entered into conversation with one of the policemen.

“She! we calls her old Specks, sir.”

“I have often seen her about, and I spoke to her once, but she didn’t answer.”

“She didn’t hear you, sir; she’s a little deaf.  A real good sort, sir, is old Jenny.  She’s always about here.  She was brought out in the Temple; she lived eight years with a Q.C., sir.  He’s dead.  A strapping fine wench she was then, I can tell you.”

“And what does she do now?”

“She has three or four friends here.  She goes to see Mr.—­I can’t think of his name—­you know him, the red-whiskered man in Dr. Johnson’s Buildings.  You have seen him in the Probate Court many a time.”  And then in defence of her respectability, if not of her morals, the policeman said, “You’ll never see her about the streets, sir, she only comes to the Temple.”