Mr. Crisparkle bowed again.

‘It does not become us, perhaps,’ pursued the Dean, ’to be partisans.  Not partisans.  We clergy keep our hearts warm and our heads cool, and we hold a judicious middle course.’

’I hope you do not object, sir, to my having stated in public, emphatically, that he will reappear here, whenever any new suspicion may be awakened, or any new circumstance may come to light in this extraordinary matter?’

‘Not at all,’ returned the Dean.  ’And yet, do you know, I don’t think,’ with a very nice and neat emphasis on those two words:  ’I don’t think I would state it emphatically.  State it?  Ye-e-es!  But emphatically?  No-o-o.  I think not.  In point of fact, Mr. Crisparkle, keeping our hearts warm and our heads cool, we clergy need do nothing emphatically.’

So Minor Canon Row knew Neville Landless no more; and he went whithersoever he would, or could, with a blight upon his name and fame.

It was not until then that John Jasper silently resumed his place in the choir.  Haggard and red-eyed, his hopes plainly had deserted him, his sanguine mood was gone, and all his worst misgivings had come back.  A day or two afterwards, while unrobing, he took his Diary from a pocket of his coat, turned the leaves, and with an impressive look, and without one spoken word, handed this entry to Mr. Crisparkle to read: 

’My dear boy is murdered.  The discovery of the watch and shirt-pin convinces me that he was murdered that night, and that his jewellery was taken from him to prevent identification by its means.  All the delusive hopes I had founded on his separation from his betrothed wife, I give to the winds.  They perish before this fatal discovery.  I now swear, and record the oath on this page, That I nevermore will discuss this mystery with any human creature until I hold the clue to it in my hand.  That I never will relax in my secrecy or in my search.  That I will fasten the crime of the murder of my dear dead boy upon the murderer.  And, That I devote myself to his destruction.’

CHAPTER XVII—­PHILANTHROPY, PROFESSIONAL AND UNPROFESSIONAL

Full half a year had come and gone, and Mr. Crisparkle sat in a waiting-room in the London chief offices of the Haven of Philanthropy, until he could have audience of Mr. Honeythunder.

In his college days of athletic exercises, Mr. Crisparkle had known professors of the Noble Art of fisticuffs, and had attended two or three of their gloved gatherings.  He had now an opportunity of observing that as to the phrenological formation of the backs of their heads, the Professing Philanthropists were uncommonly like the Pugilists.  In the development of all those organs which constitute, or attend, a propensity to ‘pitch into’ your fellow-creatures, the Philanthropists were remarkably favoured.  There were several Professors passing in and out,