CHAPTER VIII.
THE TREASURY UNLOCKED.
A Sunday morning. In their parlour in Burton Crescent, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Snowdon were breakfasting. The sound of church bells—most depressing of all sounds that mingle in the voice of London—intimated that it was nearly eleven o’clock, but neither of our friends had in view the attendance of public worship. Blended odours of bacon and kippered herrings filled the room—indeed, the house, for several breakfasts were in progress under the same roof. For a wonder, the morning was fine, even sunny; a yellow patch glimmered on the worn carpet, and the grime of the windowpanes was visible against an unfamiliar sky. Joseph, incompletely dressed, had a Suuday paper propped before him, and read whilst he ate. Clem, also in anything but grande toilette, was using a knife for the purpose of
