Silent, neglected, desolate, it breathed an air of tragedy.

It seemed to mourn in sackcloth and ashes for its lost master.

The massive door within the splendid carven portico was crusted with grime, and seemed to have passed out of use as completely as the ancient lamp-irons or the rusted extinguishers wherein the footmen were wont to quench their torches when some Bellingham dame was borne up the steps in her gilded chair, in the days of good Queen Anne.
It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that we presently turned away and started homeward by way of Great Ormond Street.

My companion was deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that sombreness of manner that had so impressed me when I first met her.

Nor was I without a certain sympathetic pensiveness; as if, from the great, silent house, the spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bear us company.
But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last we arrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham halted and held out her hand.
"Good-bye," she said; "and many, many thanks for your invaluable help.
Shall I take the bag ?" "If you want it.