the
coachyard, on the morning my brother went away to Yorkshire?'

Newman cast a wistful glance on Mrs Nickleby and said 'No,' most
unblushingly.

'No!' exclaimed Kate, 'I should have said so anywhere.'

'You'd have said wrong,' rejoined Newman. 'It's the first time I've been
out for three weeks. I've had the gout.'

Newman was very, very far from having the appearance of a gouty subject,
and so Kate could not help thinking; but the conference was cut short by
Mrs Nickleby's insisting on having the door shut, lest Mr Noggs should
take cold, and further persisting in sending the servant girl for a
coach, for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To
both conditions, Newman was compelled to yield. Presently, the coach
came; and, after many sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running
backwards and forwards across the pavement on the part of Miss La
Creevy, in the course of which the yellow turban came into violent
contact with sundry foot-passengers, it (that is to say the coach,
not the turban) went away again, with the two ladies and their luggage
inside; and Newman, despite all Mrs Nickleby's assurances that it would
be his death--on the box beside the driver.

They went into the city, turning down by the river side; and, after a
long and very slow drive, the streets being crowded at that hour with
vehicles of every kind, stopped in front of a large old dingy house in
Thames Street: the door and windows of which were so bespattered with
mud, that it would have appeared to have been uninhabited for years.

The door of this deserted mansion Newman opened with a key which he took
out of his hat--in which, by-the-bye, in consequence of the dilapidated
state of his pockets, he deposited everything, and would most
likely have carried his money if he had had any--and the coach being
discharged, he led the way into the interior of the mansion.

Old, and gloomy, and black, in truth it was, and sullen and dark were
the rooms, once so bustling with life and enterprise. There was a
wharf behind, opening on the Thames. An empty dog-kennel, some bones of
animals, fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks, lay strewn
about, but no life was stirring there. It was a picture of cold, silent
decay.

'This house depresses and chills one,' said Kate, 'and seems as if some
blight had fallen on it. If I were superstitious, I should be almost
inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had been perpetrate