HE next morning I called in Mr. and Mrs. Titch, Aramatilda, and Halfred, and, in a voice from which I could not altogether banish my emotion, I told them that I must give up my rooms and that they might never see me again. From Halfred's manner I could not but suspect he was prepared for ominous news; he had evidently concluded that a man who introduced after dark such a visitor as I had entertained last night must stand on the brink either of insanity or crime. Yet his stoical look as he heard my announcement said, better than words: “You may disgust my judgment, but you cannot shake my fidelity. Through all your errors I am prepared to stand by you, and brush your trousers even on the morning of your execution.”

Mr. Titch's sorrow was, I fear, somewhat tinctured by regret at the loss of a profitable tenant, though I am sure it was none the less sincere on that account.

“What 'as to 'appen, 'as to come about, as it were, sir,” he said, clearing his throat for a further flight of imagery. “You will 'ave our good wishes even in furrin parts, if I may say so, which people which has been there tells me is enjoyable to such as knows the language, and 'as the good fortune for to be able to digest their vittles. We will 'old your memory, sir, in respectful hestimation, and forward letters as may be required.”

Mrs. Titch being, as I have said before, a lady of no ideas and a kindly heart, confined her remarks to observing:

“As Mr. Titch says, what has to be is such as we will hendeavor to hestimate regretfully, sir.” As for Aramatilda, she looked as though she would have spoken very kindly, indeed, had the occasion been more private. That, at least, was the sentiment which a wide experience enabled me to read in her brown eye.

“My dear Miss Titch,” I said to her, “I leave you in good hands. Next to having the felicity myself, I should sooner see you solaced by my good friend Halfred than by any one I can think of.”

“Oh, sir,” she replied, with a most becoming blush, “you are very kind. But that won't be till you don't require him no longer.”

“Right you are,” said her lover, regarding her with an approving eye. “And Mr. d'Haricot ain't done with me yet.”

“I fear that I shall be in two days more,” I replied, with a sadness that brought a sympathetic tear to Aramatilda's eye.

“That's to be seen, sir,” said Halfred, with resolution.

Well, I dismissed these good people with a sadder heart than I cared to allow, and had turned to arranging my papers and collecting my bills, when I was interrupted by the entry of the Marquis in person.

He was busy, he told me, busy about many things; and his manner was mystery itself. Yet even a conspirator is human, and evidently he had other interests in London besides our plot. From one or two sighs and tender allusions I shrewdly guessed the nature of these.

“You are not in love?” he asked me, suddenly.

“In love!” I exclaimed, in astonishment, for his previous sentence, though uttered with a melancholy air, had referred to the merits of a new rifle.

“In love with a dark lady?”

I started. Could he refer to Kate? Yes, of course, now I come to think of it, he or his agents must have seen us together.

“No, Marquis, I give you my word I am not in love either with black or brown,” I answered, gayly.

“I am glad, my dear friend,” he replied, “for I would not do you an injury.”

“An injury?” I exclaimed, with a laugh. “Would you be my rival?”

“No, no,” he said, though with some confusion. “I meant, my friend, that I would not like to tear you from her.”

“The conspirator must conspire,” I said, with a smile.

“True; true, indeed,” he replied, with a sigh.

Used as I was to the complex nature of my friend, I could not help thinking that this was indeed a sentimental mood for one who was about to undertake as mad and desperate an enterprise as ever patriot devised.

“To-morrow morning I shall not be available,” he told me as he left; “but after that—the King!”

“You do not, then, prepare my dinner to-morrow morning?”

“No, monsieur, not in the morning.”

By that night I had made the few preparations that were necessary before striking my tent and leaving England, perhaps forever. The next day found me idle and restless, and suddenly I said to myself:

“The most embarrassing part of this wild enterprise is being thrown upon me. I want a friend by my side, and if the Marquis de la Carrabasse objects, let the devil take him!”

Ah, if I could have summoned Dick Shafthead!

But, having undertaken not to do this, I selected that excellent sportsman, his cousin Teddy Lumme. His courage I had proved, his wisdom I felt sure was not sufficient to deter him from mixing himself up with the business, and as for any harm coming to him, I promised myself to see that he did not accompany me too far.

I went to him, and having sworn him to secrecy, I told him of the dinner, he, of course, knew that his father, the venerable bishop, was to be of the party, and when he heard the part that the guests were afterwards expected to play you should have seen his face.

“Of course they will not listen to me for a moment,” I said. “The idea is absurd. But I am bound to carry out my instructions, and afterwards to start upon this reckless expedition myself. I only ask you, as my friend, to come to the dinner, and keep me in countenance, and afterwards take my farewells to your cousins—I should say, to all my English friends. Will you?”

“Like a shot,” said Teddy. “I wouldn't miss the fun for anything. By Jove! I think I see my governor's face! I say, you Frenchies are good, old-fashioned sportsmen. You're going to swim the channel, of course?”

His mirth, I confess, jarred a little upon me.

“I am serving my King,” I reminded him.

“Oh, I know, I'd do the same myself if these dashed Radicals got into power over here. A man can't be too loyal, I always say. All right; I'll come. What time?”

“Eight o'clock.”

In the afternoon a decidedly disquieting incident occurred. Much more to my surprise than pleasure, I received a brief visit from Mr. Hankey. I had disliked the thought of this individual ever since my burgling experience, and now that I saw him in the flesh I disliked him still more.

“Do you come from the Marquis de la Carrabasse?” I asked.

“His Lordship has directed me to remove the packing-case to-night.”

“Take it,” I said. “My faith! I prefer its room to its company! The Marquis is at Beacon Street at present, I suppose?”

“His Lordship is engaged.”

“Engaged?”

“Rather more than that,” said Mr. Hankey, with a peculiar look. “But he will call upon you to-morrow and give you your orders.”

“My orders!” I exclaimed, with some annoyance.

“His Lordship used that expression.”

Mr. Hankey looked at me as if to see how I liked this, and then, in a friendly tone which angered me still further, remarked:

“It's a risky job, is this.”

“A man must take some risks now and then.”

“If the police were to hear?” he suggested.

“Who is to tell them?”

“It might be worth somebody's while.”

“And whom do you suspect of being that traitor?” I exclaimed.

With a very abject apology for giving any offence, Mr. Hankey withdrew.

“They still suspect me!” I said to myself, indignantly.

Then another suspicion, still more unpleasant, struck me. Was Mr. Hankey making an overture to me? I tried to dismiss it, but my spirits were not very high that night, not even after the explosive packing-case had been removed.

Before retiring to bed on the last night which I was going to spend in this land, a sudden and happy idea struck me. Not to write a single line of explanation to my late hosts was ungrateful and unbecoming in one who boasted of belonging to the politest nation in Europe. I had only promised not to write to Lady Shafthead and Dick. Well, then, there was nothing to hinder me from writing to Daisy. I admit that Sir Philip also was exempt, but this alternative did not strike me so forcibly. If I posted my letter in the morning, she would not get it till it was too late to take any steps that might interfere with our plans. I seized my pen and sat down and wrote:

“Dear Miss Shafthead,—Truly you must think me the most ungrateful and unmannerly of guests; but, believe me, gratitude and kind recollections are not what have been lacking. I am prevented from explaining fully, but I may venture to tell you this—since the occasion will be past even when you read these lines; I am again in the service of one who has the first call upon my devotion. Without naming him, doubtless you can guess who I mean. Silence towards the kind Lady Shafthead and towards my dear friend Dick has been enjoined upon me; but since you were not specifically mentioned I cannot resist the impulse to assure you of my eternal remembrance of your kindness and of yourself. Convey my adieus to Sir Philip and to Lady Shafthead, and assure them that their hospitality and goodness will never be forgotten by me.

“Tell Dick that I shall write to him later if fate permits me. If not, he can always assure himself that I was ever his most affectionate and devoted friend.

“I leave England to-night on an adventure which I cannot but allow seems hopeless and desperate enough, but, as I once said to you on a less serious occasion, 'l'homme propose, Dieu dispose.' The cause calls, I can but obey! I know not what English customs permit me to sign myself, but in the language of sincerity and of the heart, I am, yours eternally and gratefully.”

And then I signed my name, lingering a little over it to delay the curtain which seemed to descend when I folded my letter and placed it in its envelope.