his big pipe and laid it to rest in its coffin. It was only after he had gone through this business with his usual attention to every detail of it that he said, 'Also, now for the letter,' and, putting his hand inside of his waistcoat, drew forth the important document. It passed instantly into Hyacinth's grasp, and our young man transferred it to his own pocket without looking at it. He thought he saw a shade of disappointment in Schinkel's ugly, kindly face, at this indication that he should have no present knowledge of its contents; but he liked that better than his pretending to say again that it was nothing—that it was only a release. Schinkel had now the good sense, or the good taste, not to repeat that remark, and as the letter pressed against his heart Hyacinth felt still more distinctly that it was something—that it was a command. What Schinkel did say, in a moment, was 'Now that you have got it, I am very glad. It is more comfortable for me.'
'I should think so!' Hyacinth exclaimed. 'If you hadn't done your job you would have paid for it.'
Schinkel hesitated a moment while he lingered; then, as Hyacinth turned away, putting in his door-key, he replied, 'And if you don't do yours, so will you.'
'Yes, as you say, they go straight! Good-night.' And our young man let himself in.
The passage and staircase were never lighted, and the lodgers either groped their way bedward with the infallibility of practice or scraped the wall with a casual match which, in the milder gloom of day, was visible in a hundred rich streaks. Hyacinth's room was on the second floor, behind, and as he approached it he was startled by seeing a light proceed from the crevice under the door, the imperfect
