the house in fleet street, next door to todd's, was kept by a shoemaker, named whittle, and in this shoemaker's window was a bill, only put up on the very day of poor tobias's escape from peckham, announcing—"an attic to let." this was rather an alluring announcement to sir richard blunt. at about half an hour after sunset on the same evening that had witnessed the utter discomfiture of the attempt to restore poor tobias ragg to his senses, two men stood in the deep recess of a doorway immediately opposite to the house of sweeney todd. these two men were none other than sir richard and his esteemed but rather eccentric officer, mr. crotchet. after some few moments' silence, sir richard spoke, saying—

"well, crotchet—what do you think of the affair now?"

"nothink."

"nothing? you do not mean that, crotchet?"

"says what i means—means what i says, and then leaves it alone."

"but you have some opinion, crotchet?"

"had, master—had—"

"well, crotchet; i think we can now cross over the way, and endeavour to get possession of the shoemaker's attic, from which we can get into todd's house."

"and find nothink criminatory."

"you think not; but do you know, crotchet, i am of opinion that the greatest and cleverest rogues not unfrequently leave themselves open to detection, in some little particular, which they have most strangely and unaccountably neglected. i am not without a hope that we shall find the man, sweeney todd, to be one of that class, and if so, we shall not fail to do some good by our visit to the house.—you remain here and watch for his going out, and when he is gone, come over the way and ask for mr. smith. have you seen fletcher?"

"no, but he will be here presently, and will wait till that 'ere fellow goes away, if so be as he goes out, and then when you and me hears two notes on the key-bugle, it will be time all for us to go for to come to mizzle."

"very good," said sir richard blunt, and he crossed over to the shoemaker's shop, leaving crotchet on the watch in the deep doorway.

the fact is, they had been waiting there for some time, in the hope that todd would go out, but he had not stirred, so that the magistrate thought it would be as well to let crotchet remain while he secured the shoemaker's attic, with a view to ulterior proceedings. the magistrate was dressed as a respectable, staid clerk, and he walked into the shoemaker's shop with a gravity of gait that was quite imposing.

"you have an attic to let," he said. "is it furnished?"

"oh yes, sir, and comfortably too. my missus looks after all that, i can tell you."

"very well, i want just such a place; for, do you know, since i have left a widower, i like to live in some lively situation, and as all my friends are at cambridge, and not a soul that i know in london, i don't half fancy going into an out-of-the-way place to live; though, i dare say, for all that, london is safe enough."

"why, i don't know that," said the shoemaker. "however, you'll be safe enough here, sir, never doubt. the rent is four shillings a week."

"very good. i think, if you will show it to me, we shall suit each other. the great object with me is to find myself in the house of a respectable man, and one look at you, sir, is quite sufficient to show me that you are one."

this was all highly flattering to the shoemaker, and he was so well pleased to get such a respectable, civil-spoken, middle aged gentleman into his house, that he was prepared, upon half a word to that effect, to come down a whole sixpence a week in the rent, if needs were. of course, the would-be-lodger was well enough pleased with the attic, and turning to the shoemaker, he handed him four shillings, saying—

"as my friends are all so far off, i ought to give you a week's rent in advance, instead of a reference, and there it is."

after this, who could ask any further questions? the magistrate, just, of his own accord, added that his name was smith, and that he would stay a short time in his room if the shoemaker could oblige him with a light, which was done accordingly, and when the shoemaker's wife came home—that lady having been out to gossip with no less a personage than mrs. lovett—he was quite elated to tell her what a lodger they had, and as he handed her the four shillings, saying "my dear, that will buy you the ribbon at mrs. keating's, the mercer, that you had set your mind upon," how could she be other than quite amiable?

"well, john," she said, "for once in a way, i must say that you have shown great judgment, and if i had been at home myself, i could not have managed better."

this, we are quite sure, our lady readers will agree with us was as much as any married female ought to say. sir richard blunt ascended to the attic, of which he was now, by virtue of a weekly tenancy, lord and master, with a light, and closing the door, he cast his eyes around the apartment. its appointments were decidedly not luxurious. in one corner a stump-bedstead awakened anything but lively associations, while the miserable little grate, the front of which was decidedly composed of some portions of an old iron hoop from a barrel, did not look redolent of comforts. the rest of the apartments were what the auctioneers call en suite, the said auctioneers having but a dreamy notion of what en suite means. but the appointments or disappointments of his attic were of little consequence to sir richard blunt. it was the window that offered attractions to him. softly opening it, he looked out, and found that there was a leaden gutter, with only the average amount of filth in it, the drain being, of course, stopped up by a dishclout and a cracked flower-pot, which is perfectly according to custom in london. he saw enough at a glance, however, to convince him that there would be no difficulty whatever in getting to the attic of todd's house, and that fact once ascertained, he waited with exemplary and placid patience the return of crotchet. now, sweeney todd was, during much of that day, in what is denominated a brown study. he could not make up his mind in what way he was to make up for the loss of the senses of tobias. it was with him an equal choice of disagreeables. to have a boy, or not to have a boy, which to do became an anxious question.

"a boy is a spy," muttered todd to himself—"a spy upon all my actions—a perpetual police-officer in a small way, constantly at my elbow—an alarum continually crying to me 'todd! todd! beware!' curses on them all, and yet what a slave am i to this place without a lad; and, after all, when they do become too troublesome and inquisitive, i can but dispose of them as i have disposed of him."

todd patrolled his shop for some time, thus communing with himself; but as yet he could not make up his mind which to do.—a boy or not a boy?—that was the question. he remained in this unsatisfactory state of mind until sunset had passed away and the dim twilight was wrapping all things in obscurity. then, without deciding upon either course, he suddenly, in a very hurried manner, shut up his shop, and closing the outer door carefully, he walked rapidly towards bell yard. he was going to mrs. lovett's, whither we shall follow him at a more convenient opportunity, but just now we have sir richard blunt's enterprise to treat of. todd had no sooner got fairly out of sight, than mr. crotchet emerged from the doorway in which he was concealed, and went a few paces down fleet street, towards the temple.—he soon met a man genteelly dressed, who seemed to be sauntering along in an idle fashion.

"all's right, fletcher," said crotchet.

"oh, is it?"

"yes. have you got that ere little article with you?"

"the bugle? oh, yes."

"mind you blows it then, if you sees todd come home, and no gammon."

"trust to me old fellow."

without another word, mr. crotchet crossed over the road, and opened the shop-door of the shoemaker. now the face of mr. crotchet was not the most engaging in the world, and when he looked in upon the shoemaker, that industrious workman felt a momentary pang of alarm, and particularly when mr. crotchet, imparting a horrible obliquity to his vision, said—

"how is yer, old un?"

"sir?" said the shoemaker.

"you couldn't show a fellow the way up to smith's hattic, i supposes?"

"smith—smith?—oh, dear me, that's the new lodger. i'll call him down if you wait here."

"no occasion. i'll toddle up, my tulip. he's a relation o' mine, don't you see the likeness atween us?—we was considered the handsomest pair 'o men as was in london at one time, and it sticks to us now, i can tell you."

"if you wish, sir, to go up, instead of having mr. smith called down, of course, sir, you can, as you are an old friend. allow me to light you, sir."

"not the least occasion. only tell me where it isn't, and i'll find out where it is, old chap."

"it's the front attic."

"all's right. don't be sich a hass as to be flaring away arter me, with that ere double dip, i can find my way in worserer places than this here. all's right—easy does it."

to the surprise of the shoemaker, his mysterious visitor opened the little door at the back of the shop, which led to the staircase, and in a moment disappeared up them.

"upon my life, this mr. smith," thought the shoemaker, "seems to have some very strange connexions. he told me he knew nobody in london, and then here comes one of the ugliest fellows, i think, i ever saw in all my life, and claims acquaintance with him. what ought i to do?—ought i to tell mrs. w. of it?"

at this moment mrs. w. made her appearance from the mercer's, with the ribbon that had tickled her feminine fancy—all smiles and sweetness. the heart of the shoemaker died within him, for well he knew what visitation he was likely to come in for, if anything connected with the lodger turned out wrong.

"a-hem! a-hem! well, my dear, have you got the ribbon?"

"oh yes, to be sure, and a love it is—"

"ah!—ah!"

"what's the matter?"

"nothing, my dove. i was only thinking that it wasn't the ribbon that makes folks look lovely, but the person who wears it. you would look beautiful in any ribbon."

"why, my dear, that may be very true, but still one ought to look as well as one can, you know, for the credit of one's maker."

"oh, yes, yes, but i was only thinking—"

"thinking of what? bless me, mr. wheeler, how mystifying you are to-night, to be sure. what do you mean by this conduct? was ever a woman so pestered and tormented with a fool of a man, who looks like an owl in an ivy bush for all the world, or a crow peeping into a marrowbone."

"my duck, how can you say so?"

"duck indeed? keep your ducks to yourself. hoity toity. duck, indeed. you low good-for-nothing—"

"my dear, my dear. i was only thinking, and not in the least wishing to offend."

"but you do offend me, you nasty insinuating, sneering wretch.—what were you thinking about? tell me this moment."

"why, that a pretty silver-grey satin mantle would set off your figure so well, that—"

"oh, john!"

"that, though quarter-day is near at hand, i think you ought to have one."

"really, jackey."

"yes, my dear."

"what a man you are. ah, jackey, after all, though we have, like all people, our little tiffs and wiffs and sniffs—after all, i say it, perhaps, that should not say it, you are a dear, good, obliging—"

"don't mention it."

"yes, but—"

"no, don't. by-the-bye, do you know, susey, that i begin to have my suspicions—mind, i may be wrong, but i begin to have my suspicions, do you know, that our attic lodger is, after all, no better than he should be."

"gracious!"

"hush! hush! there has been a man here; so ugly—so—so—squintified, if i may say so, that between you and me and the post, my dear, it's enough to frighten any one to look at him, it is indeed.—but as for the silver-grey satin, don't stint the quality for a sixpence or so."

"the wretch!"

"and take care to have plenty of rich trimming to it."

"the monster!"

"and have something pretty to match it, so that when you go to st. dunstan's next sunday, all the folks will ask what fine lady from court has come into the city out of curiosity to see the old church."

"oh, jackey."

"that's what i call," muttered mr. wheeler, "pouring oil upon the troubled waters." he then spoke aloud, saying—"now, my dear, it is your judgment and advice i want. what shall we do in this case? for you see—first of all, the new lodger denies knowing a soul, and then, in half an hour, an old acquaintance calls upon him here."

the silver-grey satin—the flattering allusion to the probable opinion of the people in st. dunstan's church on the next sunday—the obscure allusion to a something else to match it, and the appeal to her judgment, all had the effect desired upon mrs. wheeler, who, dropping entirely the hectoring tone, fell into her husband's views, and began calmly and dispassionately, without abuse or crimination, to discuss the merits, or rather the probable demerits, of the new lodger.

"i tell you, my dear, my opinion," said the lady. "as for stopping in the house and not knowing who and what he is, i won't."

"certainly not, my love."

"then, mr. w., the only thing to do, is for you and i to go up stairs, and say that as i was out you did not know a mr. jones had spoken about the lodging, but that, if he could give a reference in london, we would still have him for a lodger."

"very well. that will be only civil, and if he says he can't, but must send to cambridge—"

"why then, my dear, you must say that he may stay till he writes, and i'll be guided by his looks. if i give you a nudge, so, with my elbow, you may consider that it's pretty right."

"very well, my dove."