never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with

his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court; they

went the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual

orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at

broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings,

like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as

were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would

never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he

rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.

“Ten o’clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had

charged to wake him“ten o’clock, sir.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Ten o’clock, sir.”

“What do you mean? Ten o’clock at night?”

“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”

“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”

After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man

dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five

minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned

into the Temple, and, having revived himself by twice pacing the

pavements of King’s Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into

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the Stryver chambers.

The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had

gone home, and the Stryver principal