He was so greatly amazed he could only sit looking mutely at the scattered letters on the table in front of him. He was even more amazed at finding them there than he had been the night before at not finding them in the wallet which he had taken from Jackson's waistcoat. He thought he had arrived at a satisfactory explanation as to how he had come to find within the wallet the sheets of manuscript which he had had in his hand on entering the supper room; but how was he to account for the appearance of the letters in this parcel which he had received from Mrs. Abington?

So perplexed was he that he failed for sometime to grasp the truth—to appreciate what was meant by the appearance of those letters on his table. But so soon as it dawned upon him that they meant safety and happiness to Mary, he sprang from his seat and almost shouted for joy. She was saved. He had checkmated the villain who had sought her ruin and who had the means to accomplish it, too. It was his astuteness that had caused him to go to Mrs. Abington and ask for her help in accomplishing the task with which he had been entrusted. He had, after all, not been mistaken in applying to a woman to help him to defeat the devilish scheme of a pitiless ruffian, and Mary Horneck had not been mistaken when she had singled him out to be her champion, though all men and most women would have ridiculed the idea of his assuming the rÔle of a knight-errant.

His elation at that moment was in proportion to his depression, his despair, his humiliation when he had last been in his room. His nature knew nothing but extremes. Before retiring to his chamber in the early morning, he had felt that life contained nothing but misery for him; but now he felt that a future of happiness was in store for him—his imagination failed to set any limits to the possibility of his future happiness. He laughed at the thought of how he had resolved to go to Mary and advise her to intrust her cause to Colonel Gwyn. The thought of Colonel Gwyn convulsed him just now. With all his means, could Colonel Gwyn have accomplished all that he, Oliver Goldsmith, had accomplished?

He doubted it. Colonel Gwyn might be a good sort of fellow in spite of his formal manner, his army training, and his incapacity to see a jest, but it was doubtful if he could have brought to a successful conclusion so delicate an enterprise as that which he—Goldsmith—had accomplished. Gwyn would most likely have scorned to apply to Mrs. Abington to help him, and that was just where he would have made a huge mistake. Any man who thought to get the better of the devil without the aid of a woman was a fool. He felt more strongly convinced of the truth of this as he stood with his back to the fire in his grate than he had been when he had found the wallet containing only his own manuscript. The previous half-hour had naturally changed his views of man and woman and Providence and the world.

When he had picked up the letters and locked them in his desk, he ate some breakfast, wondering all the while by what means Mrs. Abington had obtained those precious writings; and after giving the matter an hour's thought, he came to the conclusion that she must have felt the wallet in the pocket of the man's cloak when she had left the table pretending to be shocked at the disloyal expressions of her guest—she must have felt the wallet and have contrived to extract the letters from it, substituting for them the sham act of the play which excused his entrance to the supper-room.

The more he thought over the matter, the more convinced he became that the wily lady had effected her purpose in the way, he conjectured. He recollected that she had been for a considerable time on the chair with the cloak—much longer than was necessary for Jackson to drink the treasonable toast; and when she returned to the table, it was only to turn him out of the room upon a very shallow pretext. What a fool he had been to fancy that she was in a genuine passion when she had flung her glass of wine in the face of her guest because he had addressed her as Mrs. Baddeley!

He had been amazed at the anger displayed by her in regard to that particular incident, but later he had thought it possible that she had acted the part of a jealous woman to give him a better chance of getting the wallet out of the man's waistcoat pocket. Now, however, he clearly perceived that her anxiety was to get out of the room in order to place the letters beyond the man's hands.

Once again he laughed, saying out loud—

“Ah, I was right—a woman's wiles only are superior to the strategy of a devil!”

Then he became more contemplative. The most joyful hour of his life was at hand. He asked himself how his dear Jessamy Bride would receive the letters which he was about to take to her. He did not think of himself in connection with her gratitude. He left himself altogether out of consideration in this matter. He only thought of how the girl's face would lighten—how the white roses which he had last seen on her cheeks would change to red when he put the letters into her hand, and she felt that she was safe.

That was the reward for which he looked. He knew that he would feel bitterly disappointed if he failed to see the change of the roses on her face—if he failed to hear her fill the air with the music of her laughter. And then—then she would be happy for evermore, and he would be happy through witnessing her happiness.

He finished dressing, and was in the act of going to his desk for the letters, which he hoped she would soon hold in her hand, when his servant announced two visitors.

Signor Baretti, accompanied by a tall and very thin man, entered. The former greeted Goldsmith, and introduced his friend, who was a compatriot of his own, named Nicolo.

“I have not forgotten the matter which you honoured me by placing in my hands,” said Baretti. “My friend Nicolo is a master of the art of fencing as practised in Italy in the present day. He is under the impression, singular though it may seem, that he spoke to you more than once during your wanderings in Tuscany.”

“And now I am sure of it,” said Nicolo in French. He explained that he spoke French rather better than English. “Yes, I was a student at Pisa when Dr. Goldsmith visited that city. I have no difficulty in recognising him.”

“And I, for my part, have a conviction that I have seen your face, sir,” said Goldsmith, also speaking in French; “I cannot, however, recall the circumstances of our first meeting. Can you supply the deficiency in my memory, sir?”

“There was a students' society that met at the Boccaleone,” said Signor Nicolo.

“I recollect it distinctly; Figli della Torre, you called yourselves,” said Goldsmith quickly. “You were one of the orators—quite reckless, if you will permit me to say so much.”

The man smiled somewhat grimly.

“If he had not been utterly reckless he would not be in England to-day,” said Baretti. “Like myself, he is compelled to face your detestable climate on account of some indiscreet references to the Italian government, which he would certainly repeat to-morrow were he back again.”

“It brings me back to Tuscany once more, to see your face, Signor Nicolo,” said Goldsmith. “Yes, though your Excellency had not so much of a beard and mustacio when I saw you some years ago.”

“Nay, sir, nor was your Lordship's coat quite so admirable then as it is now, if I am not too bold to make so free a comment, sir,” said the man with another grim smile.

“You are not quite right, my friend,” laughed Goldsmith; “for if my memory serves me—and it does so usually on the matter of dress—I had no coat whatsoever to my back—that was of no importance in Pisa, where the air was full of patriotism.”

“The most dangerous epidemic that could occur in any country,” said Baretti. “There is no Black Death that has claimed so many victims. We are examples—Nicolo and I. I am compelled to teach Italian to a brewer's daughter, and Nicolo is willing to transform the most clumsy Englishman—and there are a good number of them, too—into an expert swordsman in twelve lessons—yes, if the pupil will but practise sufficiently afterwards.”

“We need not talk of business just now,” said Goldsmith. “I insist on my old friends sharing a bottle of wine with me. I shall drink to 'patriotism,' since it is the means of sending to my poor room two such excellent friends as the Signori Baretti and Nicolo.”

He rang the bell, and gave his servant directions to fetch a couple of bottles of the old Madeira which Lord Clare had recently sent to him—very recently, otherwise three bottles out of the dozen would not have remained.

The wine had scarcely been uncorked when the sound of a man's step was heard upon the stairs, and in a moment Captain Jackson burst into the room.

“I have found you, you rascal!” he shouted, swaggering across the room to where Goldsmith was seated. “Now, my good fellow, I give you just one minute to restore to me those letters which you abstracted from my pocket last night.”

“And I give you just one minute to leave my room, you drunken blackguard,” said Goldsmith, laying a hand on the arm of Signor Nicolo, who was in the act of rising. “Come, sir,” he continued, “I submitted to your insults last night because I had a purpose to carry out; but I promise you that I give you no such license in my own house. Take your carcase away, sir; my friends have fastidious nostrils.”

Jackson's face became purple and then white. His lips receded from his gums until his teeth were seen as the teeth of a wolf when it is too cowardly to attack.

“You cur!” he said through his set teeth. “I don't know what prevents me from running you through the body.”

“Do you not? I do,” said Goldsmith. He had taken the second bottle of wine off the table, and was toying with it in his hands.

“Come, sir,” said the bully after a pause; “I don't wish to go to Sir John Fielding for a warrant for your arrest for stealing my property, but, by the Lord, if you don't hand over those letters to me now I will not spare you. I shall have you taken into custody as a thief before an hour has passed.”

“Go to Sir John, my friend, and tell him that Dick Jackson, American spy, is anxious to hang himself, and mention that one Oliver Goldsmith has at hand the rope that will rid the world of one of its greatest scoundrels,” said Goldsmith.

Jackson took a step or two back, and put his hand to his sword. In a second both Baretti and Nicolo had touched the hilts of their weapons. The bully looked from the one to the other, and then laughed harshly.

“My little poet,” he said in a mocking voice, “you fancy that because you have got a letter or two you have drawn my teeth. Let me tell you for your information that I have something in my possession that I can use as I meant to use the letters.”

“And I tell you that if you use it, whatever it is, by God I shall kill you, were you thrice the scoundrel that you are!” cried Goldsmith, leaping up.

There was scarcely a pause before the whistle of the man's sword through the air was heard; but Baretti gave Goldsmith a push that sent him behind a chair, and then quietly interposed between him and Jackson.

“Pardon me, sir,” said he, bowing to Jackson, “but we cannot permit you to stick an unarmed man. Your attempt to do so in our presence my friend and I regard as a grave affront to us.”

“Then let one of you draw!” shouted the man. “I see that you are Frenchmen, and I have cut the throat of a good many of your race. Draw, sir, and I shall add you to the Frenchies that I have sent to hell.”

“Nay, sir, I wear spectacles, as you doubtless perceive,” said Baretti. “I do not wish my glasses to be smashed; but my friend here, though a weaker man, may possibly not decline to fight with so contemptible a ruffian as you undoubtedly are.”

He spoke a few words to Nicolo in Italian, and in a second the latter had whisked out his sword and had stepped between Jackson and Baretti, putting quietly aside the fierce lunge which the former made when Baretti had turned partly round.

“Briccone! assassin!” hissed Baretti. “You saw that he meant to kill me, Nicolo,” he said addressing his friend in their own tongue.

“He shall pay for it,” whispered Nicolo, pushing back a chair with his foot until Goldsmith lifted it and several other pieces of furniture out of the way, so as to make a clear space in the room.

“Don't kill him, friend Nicolo,” he cried. “We used to enjoy a sausage or two in the old days at Pisa. You can make sausage-meat of a carcase without absolutely killing the beast.”

The fencing-master smiled grimly, but spoke no word.

Jackson seemed puzzled for a few moments, and Baretti roared with laughter, watching him hang back. The laugh of the Italian—it was not melodious—acted as a goad upon him. He rushed upon Nicolo, trying to beat down his guard, but his antagonist did not yield a single inch. He did not even cease to smile as he parried the attack. His expression resembled that of an indulgent chess player when a lad who has airily offered to play with him opens the game.

After a few minutes' fencing, during which the Italian declined to attack, Jackson drew back and lowered the point of his sword.

“Take a chair, sir,” said Baretti, grinning. “You will have need of one before my friend has finished with you.”

Goldsmith said nothing. The man had grossly insulted him the evening before, and he had made Mary Horneck wretched; but he could not taunt him now that he was at the mercy of a master-swordsman. He watched the man breathing hard, and then nerving himself for another attack upon the Italian.

Jackson's second attempt to get Nicolo within the range of his sword was no more successful than his first. He was no despicable fencer, but his antagonist could afford to play with him. The sound of his hard breathing was a contrast to the only other sound in the room—the grating of steel against steel.

Then the smile upon the sallow face of the fencing-master seemed gradually to vanish. He became more than serious—surely his expression was one of apprehension.

Goldsmith became somewhat excited. He grasped Baretti by the arm, as one of Jackson's thrusts passed within half an inch of his antagonist's shoulder, and for the first time Nicolo took a hasty step back, and in doing so barely succeeded in protecting himself against a fierce lunge of the other man.

It was now Jackson's turn to laugh. He gave a contemptuous chuckle as he pressed forward to follow up his advantage. He did not succeed in touching Nicolo, though he went very close to him more than once, and now it was plain that the Italian was greatly exhausted. He was breathing hard, and the look of apprehension on his face had increased until it had actually become one of terror. Jackson did not fail to perceive this, and malignant triumph was in every feature of his face. Any one could see that he felt confident of tiring out the visibly fatigued Italian, and Goldsmith, with staring eyes, once again clutched Baretti.

Baretti's yellow skin became wrinkled up to the meeting place of his wig and forehead in smiles.

“I should like the third button of his coat for a memento, Sandrino,” said he.

In an instant there was a quivering flash through the air, and the third paste button off Jackson's coat indented the wall just above Baretti's head and fell at his feet, a scrap of the satin of the coat flying behind it like the little pennon on a lance.

“Heavens!” whispered Goldsmith.

“Ah, friend Nicolo was always a great humourist,” said Baretti. “For God's sake, Sandrino, throw them high into the air. The rush of that last was like a bullet.”

Up to the ceiling flashed another button, and fell back upon the coat from which it was torn.

And still Nicolo fenced away with that look of apprehension still on his face.

“That is his fun,” said Baretti. “Oh, body of Bacchus! A great humourist!”

The next button that Nicolo cutoff with the point of his sword he caught in his left hand and threw to Goldsmith, who also caught it.

The look of triumph vanished from Jackson's face. He drew back, but his antagonist would not allow him to lower his sword, but followed him round the room untiringly. He had ceased his pretence of breathing heavily, but apparently his right arm was tired, for he had thrown his sword into his left hand, and was now fencing from that side.

Suddenly the air became filled with floating scraps of silk and satin. They quivered to right and left, like butterflies settling down upon a meadow; they fluttered about by the hundred, making a pretty spectacle. Jackson's coat and waistcoat were in tatters, yet with such consummate dexterity did the fencingmaster cut the pieces out of both garments that Goldsmith utterly failed to see the swordplay that produced so amazing a result. Nicolo seemed to be fencing pretty much as usual.

And then a curious incident occurred, for the front part of one of the man's pocket fell on the floor.

With an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap on the floor. The pocked being cut away, a packet of letters, held against the lining by a few threads of silk, became visible, and in another moment Nicolo had spitted them on his sword, and laid them on the table in a single flash. Goldsmith knew by the look that Jackson cast at them that they were the batch of letters which he had received in the course of his traffic with the American rebels.

“Come, Sandrino,” said Baretti, affecting to yawn. “Finish the rascal off, and let us go to that excellent bottle of Madeira which awaits us. Come, sir, the carrion is not worth more than you have given him; he has kept us from our wine too long already.”

With a curiously tricky turn of the wrist, the master cut off the right sleeve of the man's coat close to his shoulder, and drew it in a flash over his sword. The disclosing of the man's naked arm and the hiding of the greater part of his weapon were comical in the extreme; and with an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap upon the floor, thoroughly exhausted.