anged and raised the man. She was too much occupied then

with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and

with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she

observed.

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They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way

to Mr. Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John

Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a

cheery little log or two of fireperhaps looking into their blaze for

the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who

had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a

good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and

showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.

“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”

“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an

association with the nameand with the face.”

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed

Carton, coolly. “Pray sit down.”

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry

wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr.

Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor

with an undisguised look of abhorrence.

“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the

affectionate