THERE it stood, at the corner of the street, the finest public-house in the populous neighbourhood of this London suburb. There it stood, with its plate-glass windows, and grand swinging doors, and brilliant lights at night, and the air of warmth and welcome and cheer, that, like the will-o'-the-wisp of the treacherous marsh, lured many a foolish wayfarer to ruin. The place was kept by a man called John Drinkrow, to whom it had been bequeathed by his father, who had borne the same name. For a period of thirty years, John Drinkrow, the elder, had successfully carried on the business; then he died, leaving a considerable fortune, as well as the public-house itself, to his only son. During his…
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