“Only through me,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

“When?” cried the stranger, hastily.

“Tomorrow,” rejoined Bumble.

“At nine in the evening,” said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the waterside, in characters that betrayed his agitation; “at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.”

With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.

On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it.