art of the house was uninhabited but it
was not so. The place was terribly neglected and dilapidated. Holes were
in the walls, some of the twisted oak stair-rails had been torn away,
patches of the ceiling had fallen. But Lavinia hardly noticed anything
as she flew down the stairs. The lock could not be opened from the
outside without the key, but inside the handle had but to be pushed back
and she was in the street. She pulled her hood well over her head and
hastened towards Ludgate Hill. It was not the nearest route to Grub
Street which she knew was somewhere near Moorfields, but she dared not
pass her mother's house.

Lavinia knew more about London west of St. Paul's than she did east of
it, and she had to ask her way. Grub Street she found was outside the
city wall, many fragments of which were then standing, and she had to
pass through the Cripples Gate before she reached the squalid quarter
bordering Moor Fields westward, where distressed poets, scurrilous
pamphleteers, booksellers' hacks and literary ne'er-do-wells dragged out
an uncertain existence.

Lavinia found Fletcher's Court to be a narrow passage with old houses
dating from Elizabethan times, whose projecting storeys were so close
together that at the top floor one could jump across to the opposite
side without much difficulty. With beating heart she entered the house,
the door of which was open. She met an old woman descending a rickety
tortuous staircase and stopped her.

"Can you tell me if Mr. Vane lives here?" said she.

"Well, he do an' he don't," squeaked the old dame. "Leastways he won't
be here much longer. He's a bein' turned out 'cause he can't pay his
rent, pore young gentleman. We're all sorry for him, so civil spoken and
nice to everybody, not a bit like some o' them scribblers as do nothing
but drink gin day an' night. Street's full of 'em. I can't make out what
they does for a livin'! Scholards they be most of 'em I'm told. Mr.
Vane's lodgin's on the top floor. You goes right up. That's old Sol
Moggs' squeak as you can hear. Don't 'ee be afeared of 'im, dearie."

The old woman, who was laden with a big basket and a bundle, went out
and Lavinia with much misgiving ascended the stairs. She remembered the
name, Solomon Moggs. He was the landlord. If his nature was as harsh and
discordant as his voice poor Lancelot Vane was having an unpleasant
time.

"Ill, are ye?" she heard Moggs shrieking. "I can't help that. I didn't
make you ill, d