d his hands, blew a
shrill whistle, and made other signals, no answer was returned, nor was
a light seen at any of the upper windows. On the contrary, all was still
and silent as death.

The grocer's was a large, old-fashioned house, built about the middle of
the preceding century, or perhaps earlier, and had four stories, each
projecting over the other, till the pile seemed completely to overhang
the street. The entire front, except the upper story, which was
protected by oaken planks, was covered with panels of the same timber,
and the projections were supported by heavy beams, embellished with
grotesque carvings. Three deeply-embayed windows, having stout wooden
bars, filled with minute diamond panes, set in leaden frames, were
allotted to each floor; while the like number of gables, ornamented with
curiously-carved coignes, and long-moulded leaden spouts, shooting far
into the street, finished the roof. A huge sign, with the device of
Noah's Ark, and the owner's name upon it, hung before the door.

After carefully examining the house, peeping through the chinks in the
lower shutters, and discovering the grocer seated by the bedside of his
son, though he could not make out the object of his solicitude, Wyvil
decided upon attempting an entrance by the backyard. To reach it, a
court and a narrow alley, leading to an open space surrounded by high
walls, had to be traversed. Arrived at this spot, Wyvil threw one end of
the rope ladder over the wall, which was about twelve feet high, and
speedily succeeding in securing it, mounted, and drawing it up after
him, waved his hand to his companions, and disappeared on the other
side. After waiting for a moment to listen, and hearing a window open,
they concluded he had gained admittance, and turned to depart.

"And now for Mrs. Disbrowe!" cried Parravicin. "We shall find a coach or
a chair in Cheapside. Can I take you westward, Lydyard?"

But the other declined the offer, saying, "I will not desert Wyvil. I
feel certain he will get into some scrape, and may need me to help him
out of it. Take care of yourself, Parravicin. Beware of the plague, and
of what is worse than the plague, an injured husband. Good-night,
major."

"Farewell, sir," returned Pillichody, raising his hat. "A merry
watching, and a good catching, as the sentinels were wont to say, when I
served King Charles the First. Sir Paul, I attend you."

IV.

THE INTERVIEW.

Maurice Wyvil, as his friends conj