oubt, in his time, did found an inn, and there it is to this day. Of
Staples' Inn, who knows the purposes or use? Who are its members, and
what do they do as such? And Staples' Inn is an inn with pretensions,
having a chapel of its own, or, at any rate, a building which, in
its external dimensions, is ecclesiastical, having a garden and
architectural proportions; and a facade towards Holborn, somewhat
dingy, but respectable, with an old gateway, and with a decided
character of its own.

The building in which Mr John Vavasor had a room and a desk was
located in one of these side streets, and had, in its infantine days,
been regarded with complacency by its founder. It was stone-faced,
and strong, and though very ugly, had about it that air of importance
which justifies a building in assuming a special name of itself. This
building was called the Accountant-General's Record Office, and very
probably, in the gloom of its dark cellars, may lie to this day the
records of the expenditure of many a fair property which has gotten
itself into Chancery, and has never gotten itself out again. It was
entered by a dark hall, the door of which was never closed; and
which, having another door at its further end leading into another
lane, had become itself a thoroughfare. But the passers through it
were few in number. Now and then a boy might be seen there carrying
on his head or shoulders a huge mass of papers which you would
presume to be accounts, or some clerk employed in the purlieus of
Chancery Lane who would know the shortest possible way from the
chambers of some one attorney to those of some other. But this hall,
though open at both ends, was as dark as Erebus; and any who lingered
in it would soon find themselves to be growing damp, and would smell
mildew, and would become naturally affected by the exhalations
arising from those Chancery records beneath their feet.

Up the stone stairs, from this hall, John Grey passed to Mr Vavasor's
signing-room. The stairs were broad, and almost of noble proportions,
but the darkness and gloom which hung about the hall, hung also about
them,--a melancholy set of stairs, up and down which no man can walk
with cheerful feet. Here he came upon a long, broad passage, in which
no sound was, at first, to be heard. There was no busy noise of doors
slamming, no rapid sound of shoes, no passing to and fro of men
intent on their daily bread. Pausing for a moment, that he might look
round about him