“He left London,” answered Bradley, “yesterday. I have hardly a doubt, this time, that at last he is going to her.”

“You ain’t sure, then?”

“I am as sure here,” said Bradley, with a clutch at the breast of his coarse shirt, “as if it was written there;” with a blow or a stab at the sky.

“Ah! But judging from the looks on you,” retorted Riderhood, completely ridding himself of his grass, and drawing his sleeve across his mouth, “you’ve made ekally sure afore, and have got disapinted. It has told upon you.”

“Listen,” said Bradley, in a low voice, bending forward to lay his hand upon the lock-keeper’s shoulder. “These are my holidays.”

“Are they, by George!” muttered Riderhood, with his eyes on the passion-wasted face. “Your working days must be stiff ’uns, if these is your holidays.”