his thanks, Leander left the place; and, when he was
outside, felt more keenly than ever the blow his hopes had sustained.

He knew the whole story of his predecessor in misfortune now, and, as a
precedent, it was worse than useless.

True, for an instant a wild idea had crossed his mind, of seeking some
lonely suburban cross-road at dead of night, just to see if anything
came of it. "The last time was several hundred years ago, it seems," he
told himself; "but there's no saying that Satan mightn't come by, for
all that. Here's Venus persecuting as lively as ever, and I never heard
the devil was dead. I've a good mind to take the tram to the Archway,
and walk out till I find a likely-looking place."

But, on reflection, he gave this up. "If he did come by, I couldn't
bring him a line--not even from the conjuror in High 'Oborn--and Satan
might make me put my hand to something binding, and I shouldn't be no
better off. No; I don't see no way of getting back my ring and poor
Tillie's cloak, nor yet getting rid of that goddess, any more than
before. There's one comfort, I can't be any worse off than I am."

Oppressed by these gloomy reflections, he returned to his home,
expecting a renewal of his nightly persecution from the goddess; but
from some cause, into which he was too grateful to care to inquire, the
statue that evening showed no sign of life in his presence, and after
waiting with the cupboard open for some time in suspense, he ventured to
make himself some coffee.

He had scarcely tasted it, however, before he heard, from the passage
below, a low whistle, followed by the peculiar stave by which a modern
low-life Blondel endeavours to attract attention. The hairdresser paid
no attention, being used, as a Londoner, to hearing such signals, and
not imagining they could be intended for his ear.

But presently a handful of gravel rattled against his window, and the
whistle was repeated. He went to the window cautiously, and looked out.
Below were two individuals, rather carefully muffled; their faces, which
were only indistinctly seen, were upturned to him.

He retreated, trembling. He had had so much to think of lately, that the
legal danger he was running, by harbouring the detested statue, was
almost forgotten; but now he remembered the Inspector's words, and his
legs bent beneath him. Could these people be _detectives_?

"Is that Mr. Tweddle up there?" said a voice below--"because if it is,
he'd better come