in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back into the rain at the view thereof; and saying, “I’ll go to him,” hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards a huge black mill.
The work-hours were over; the “hands” were gone; the machinery was at rest; the mill shut up. Malone walked round it; somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at another door, using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelagh, with which he beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.
“Is it Joe Scott? What news of the waggons, Joe?”
“No,—it’s myself. Mr. Helstone would send me.”
“Oh! Mr. Malone.” The voice in uttering this name had the slightest possible cadence of disappointment. After a moment’s pause, it continued, politely, but a little formally:—
“I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you so far; there was no necessity;—I told him so,—and on such a night—but walk forwards.”
Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room within; very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which for the last hour had been striving to penetrate the double darkness of night and fog; but except for its excellent fire, and
