“Sir,” said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.

“Do you know⁠—what’s a-name⁠—Doctors’ Commons?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Where is it?”

“Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.”

“Touts for licences!” said the gentleman.

“Touts for licences,” replied Sam. “Two coves in vhite aprons⁠—touches their hats ven you walk in⁠—‘Licence, Sir, licence?’ Queer sort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir⁠—Old Bailey Proctors⁠—and no mistake.”

“What do they do?” inquired the gentleman.

“Do! You