SILAS MONK.
A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
The streets in the old city are dark and deserted as the detective and Walter Tiltcroft hasten through them towards Crutched Friars. The street-lamps cast limited spaces of light upon the fronts of lofty warehouses and counting-houses, leaving limitless spaces of shadow about and above. The windows of these mansions have the blankness of blind eyes; the great, black, massive office-doors are firmly closed; and the greater doors of the warehouses are fastened with huge padlocks and chains, like prisons, or places with dead secrets made safe in the custody of night. Not a word is spoken. The two men, earnestly bent on their search, walk along with the echoes of their footsteps sounding loudly in their ears; while the tap on the pavement of Fenwick’s stick falls with a musical ring, as though it were gifted with the power, like a magic wand, of chasing the echoes away. When they presently stop at the entrance to the counting-house of Armytage and Company, the detective produces a latchkey, opens the door, and leads the way into the house. As soon as Walter has entered and the door is closed behind him, Fenwick draws forth a dark-lantern, which he flashes unceremoniously in the young clerk’s face. ‘I call this light,’ says Fenwick, ‘my eye.’
Walter stares at it, and blinks.
‘It has peered into and pierced through many a dark deed.—Catch hold!’
Walter, with trembling expectation, takes the lantern.
‘Throw the light upon the keyhole!’ cries Fenwick. ‘I will open the door.’ He rattles, as he speaks, a bunch of keys.
‘Which keyhole first?’ Walter asks.
‘The strong-room.’