ly explained by its suddenly stopping at the stable
door of Sanger's and refusing to budge. I was partially consoled by the
fact that we were just opposite St. Thomas's Hospital, so that I should
be in good hands if the worst befell. The fog becoming even denser,
Sanger's became veiled from the sight of our fiery steed, which
thereupon consented to slide on towards Lambeth Palace. A sharp turn
brought us to the gateway, where stood a hearse and string of mourning
coaches. Was I too late? Had the Bishops passed sentence, and had the
loved one of Lincoln really been beheaded?

My fears on this point were relieved by a policeman, who restrained my
driver's energetic endeavours to drive through the wall of the Palace,
and as my password was "Jeune" (November would have been more
appropriate on such a morning) I was allowed inside the gates. Here I
could not see my hand, or anyone else's, in front of me, and after
stumbling up some steps and down some others I finally flattened my nose
against a door. Policeman No. 2 suddenly appeared, and turned his
bull's-eye upon me. I felt that I was doomed to the deepest dungeon
beneath the castle moat; I thought of the whipping-post I have read of
in connection with the Palace; of the Guard Room with its pikes and
instruments of torture, and I trembled. Luckily, however, the rays of
the lantern fell upon the note in my hand, addressed to Francis Jeune,
Q.C., and the good-natured "All right, sir. Go hup. 'E's a-speakin'
now," came as a reprieve.

I stumble into the large historic hall known as the Library, wherein the
great trial of the Bishop of Lincoln is being held. The weird scene
strongly resembles the Dream Trial in "The Bells," where the judges,
counsel, and all concerned are in a fog. I expect the limelight to flash
suddenly upon the chief actor, the Bishop of Lincoln, as he takes the
stage and re-acts the part that has caused the trial. The only lights in
the long and lofty Library, excepting the clerical and legal, are a
dozen or two wax candles and a few oil-lamps--of daylight, gaslight, or
electric light, nothing. I can hear the voice of Jeune, Q.C., which
gladdens my heart amid these sepulchral surroundings, but I see him not.
As my eyes gradually become accustomed to the strange scene, I find that
it is composed of three distinct "sets," which present the appearance of
a muddled-up stage picture when the flats go wrong, and you have a part
of the Surrey Hills, a corner of