g the door. Now, then, fear was changed into certainty, and
it seemed without doubt that the men, having found some difficulty or
danger in forcing the stronger or more public entrance, had changed
their quarter of attack. No more time was to be lost; Clarence shouted
aloud, but the high wind probably prevented the sound reaching the ears
of the burglars, or at least rendered it dubious and confused. The next
moment, and before Clarence could repeat his alarm, they had opened the
door, and were within the neighbouring garden, beyond his view. Very
young men, unless their experience has outstripped their youth, seldom
have much presence of mind; that quality, which is the opposite to
surprise, comes to us in those years when nothing seems to us strange or
unexpected. But a much older man than Clarence might have well been at
a loss to know what conduct to adopt in the situation in which our
hero was placed. The visits of the watchman to that (then) obscure and
ill-inhabited neighborhood were more regulated by his indolence than his
duty; and Clarence knew that it would be in vain to listen for his cry
or tarry for his assistance. He himself was utterly unarmed, but the
stock-jobber had a pair of horse-pistols, and as this recollection
flashed upon him, the pause of deliberation ceased.

With a swift step he descended the first flight of stairs, and pausing
at the chamber door of the faithful couple, knocked upon its panels with
a loud and hasty summons. The second repetition of the noise produced
the sentence, uttered in a very trembling voice, of "Who's there?"

"It is I, Clarence Linden," replied our hero; "lose no time in opening
the door."

This answer seemed to reassure the valorous stock-jobber. He slowly
undid the bolt, and turned the key.

"In Heaven's name, what do you want, Mr. Linden?" said he.

"Ay," cried a sharp voice from the more internal recesses of the
chamber, "what do you want, sir, disturbing us in the bosom of our
family and at the dead of night?"

With a rapid voice, Clarence repeated what he had seen, and requested
the broker to accompany him to Talbot's house, or at least to lend him
his pistols.

"He shall do no such thing," cried Mrs. Copperas. "Come here, Mr. C.,
and shut the door directly."

"Stop, my love," said the stock-jobber, "stop a moment."

"For God's sake," cried Clarence, "make no delay; the poor old man may
be murdered by this time."

"It's no business of mine," said th