Goldsmith kept his word. He took a hackney-coach to the Temple, and was alert all the time he was driving lest Jackson and his friends might be waiting to make an attack upon him. He reached his chambers without any adventure, however, and on locking his doors, took out the second parcel of letters and set himself to peruse their contents.

He had no need to read them all—the first that came to his hand was sufficient to make him aware of the nature of the correspondence. It was perfectly plain that the man had been endeavouring to traffic with the rebels, and it was equally certain that the rebel leaders had shown themselves to be too honourable to take advantage of the offers which he had made to them. If this correspondence had come into the hands of Cornwallis he would have hanged the fellow on the nearest tree instead of merely turning him out of his regiment and shipping him back to England as a suspected traitor.

As he locked the letters once again in his desk he felt that there was indeed every reason to fear that Jackson would not rest until he had obtained possession of such damning evidence of his guilt. He would certainly either make the attempt to get back the letters, or leave the country, in order to avoid the irretrievable ruin which would fall upon him if any one of the packet went into the hands of a magistrate; and Goldsmith was strongly of the belief that the man would adopt the former course.

Only for an instant, as he laid down the compromising document, did he ask himself how it was possible that Mary Horneck should ever have been so blind as to be attracted to such a man, and to believe in his honesty.

He knew enough of the nature of womankind to be aware of the glamour which attaches to a soldier who has been wounded in fighting the enemies of his country. If Mary had been less womanly than she showed herself to be, he would not have loved her so well as he did. Her womanly weaknesses were dear to him, and the painful evidence that he had of the tenderness of her heart only made him feel that she was all the more a woman, and therefore all the more to be loved.

It was the afternoon of the next day before he set out once more for the Hornecks.

He meant to see Mary, and then go on to Sir Joshua Reynolds's to dine. There was to be that night a meeting of the Royal Academy, which he would attend with the president, after Sir Joshua's usual five o'clock dinner. It occurred to him that, as Baretti would also most probably be at the meeting, he would do well to make him acquainted with the dangerous character of Jackson, so that Baretti might take due precautions against any attack that the desperate man might be induced to make upon him. No doubt Baretti would make a good point in conversation with his friends of the notion of Oliver Goldsmith's counselling caution to any one; but the latter was determined to give the Italian his advice on this matter, whatever the consequences might be.

It so happened, however, that he was unable to carry out his intention in full, for on visiting Mrs. Horneck, he learned that Mary would not return from Barton until late that night, and at the meeting of the Academy Baretti failed to put in an appearance.

He mentioned to Sir Joshua that he had something of importance to communicate to the Italian, and that he was somewhat uneasy at not having a chance of carrying out his intention in this respect.

“You would do well, then, to come to my house for supper,” said Reynolds. “I think it is very probable that Baretti will look in, if only to apologise for his absence from the meeting. Miss Kauffman has promised to come, and I have secured Johnson as well.”

Goldsmith agreed, and while Johnson and Angelica Kauffman walked in front, he followed with Reynolds some distance behind—not so far, however, as to be out of the range of Johnson's voice. Johnson was engaged in a discourse with his sweet companion—he was particularly fond of such companionship—on the dignity inseparable from a classic style in painting, and the enormity of painting men and women in the habiliments of their period and country. Angelica Kauffman was not a painter who required any considerable amount of remonstrance from her preceptors to keep her feet from straying in regard to classical traditions. The artist who gave the purest Greek features and the Roman toga alike to the Prodigal Son and King Edward III could not be said to be capable of greatly erring from Dr. Johnson's precepts.

All through supper the sage continued his discourse at intervals of eating, giving his hearty commendation to Sir Joshua's conscientious adherence to classical traditions, and shouting down Goldsmith's mild suggestion that it might be possible to adhere to these traditions so faithfully as to inculcate a certain artificiality of style which might eventually prove detrimental to the best interests of art.

“What, sir!” cried Johnson, rolling like a three-decker swinging at anchor, and pursing out his lips, “would you contend that a member of Parliament should be painted for posterity in his every-day clothes—that the King should be depicted as an ordinary gentleman?”

“Why, yes, sir, if the King were an ordinary gentleman,” replied Goldsmith.

Whitefoord, who never could resist the chance of making a pun, whispered to Oliver that in respect of some Kings there was more of the ordinary than the gentleman about them, and when Miss Reynolds insisted on his phrase being repeated to her, Johnson became grave.

“Sir,” he cried, turning once more to Goldsmith, “there is a very flagrant example of what you would bring about. When a monarch, even depicted in his robes and with the awe-inspiring insignia of his exalted position, is not held to be beyond the violation of a punster, what would he be if shown in ordinary garb? But you, sir, in your aims after what you call the natural, would, I believe, consider seriously the advisability of the epitaphs in Westminster Abbey being written in English.”

“And why not, sir?” said Goldsmith; then, with a twinkle, he added, “For my own part, sir, I hope that I may live to read my own epitaph in Westminster Abbey written in English.”

Every one laughed, including—when the bull had been explained to her—Angelica Kauffman.

After supper Sir Joshua put his fair guest into her chair, shutting its door with his own hands, and shortly afterwards Johnson and Whitefoord went off together. But still Goldsmith, at the suggestion of Reynolds, lingered in the hope that Baretti would call. He had probably been detained at the house of a friend, Reynolds said, and if he should pass Leicester Square on his way home, he would certainly call to explain the reason of his absence from the meeting.

When another half-hour had passed, however, Goldsmith rose and said that as Sir Joshua's bed-time was at hand, it would be outrageous for him to wait any longer. His host accompanied him to the hall, and Ralph helped him on with his cloak. He was in the act of receiving his hat from the hand of the servant when the hall-bell was rung with starling violence. The ring was repeated before Ralph could take the few steps to the door.

“If that is Baretti who rings, his business must be indeed urgent,” said Goldsmith.

In another moment the door was opened, and the light of the lamp showed the figure of Steevens in the porch. He hurried past Ralph, crying out so as to reach the ear of Reynolds.

“A dreadful thing has happened tonight, sir! Baretti was attacked by two men in the Haymarket, and he killed one of them with his knife. He has been arrested, and will be charged with murder before Sir John Fielding in the morning. I heard of the terrible business just now, and lost no time coming to you.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Goldsmith. “I was waiting for Baretti in order to warn him.”

“You could not have any reason for warning him against such an attack as was made upon him,” said Steevens. “It seems that the fellow whom Baretti was unfortunate enough to kill was one of a very disreputable gang well known to the constables. It was a Bow street runner who stated what his name was.”

“And what was his name?” asked Reynolds.

“Richard Jackson,” replied Steevens. “Of course we never heard the name before. The attack upon Baretti was the worst that could be imagined.”

“The world is undoubtedly rid of a great rascal,” said Goldsmith.

“Undoubtedly; but that fact will not save our friend from being hanged, should a jury find him guilty,” said Steevens. “We must make an effort to avert so terrible a thing. That is why I came here now; I tried to speak to Baretti, but the constables would not give me permission. They carried my name to him, however, and he sent out a message asking me to go without delay to Sir Joshua and you, as well as Dr. Johnson and Mr. Garrick. He hopes you may find it convenient to attend before Sir John Fielding at Bow street in the morning.”

“That we shall,” said Sir Joshua. “He shall have the best legal advice available in England; and, meantime, we shall go to him and tell him that he may depend on our help, such as it is.”

The coach in which Steevens had come to Leicester Square was still waiting, and in it they all drove to where Baretti was detained in custody. The constables would not allow them to see the prisoner, but they offered to convey to him any message which his friends might have, and also to carry back to them his reply.

Goldsmith was extremely anxious to get from Baretti's own lips an account of the assault which had been made upon him; but he could not induce the constables to allow him to go into his presence. They, however, bore in his message to the effect that he might depend on the help of all his friends in his emergency.

Sir Joshua sent for the watchmen by whom the arrest had been effected, and they stated that Baretti had been seized by the crowd—afar from reputable crowd—so soon as it was known that a man had been stabbed, and he had been handed over to the constables, while a surgeon examined the man's wound, but was able to do nothing for him; he had expired in the surgeon's hands.

Baretti's statement made to the watch was that he was on his way to the meeting of the Academy, and being very late, he was hurrying through the Haymarket when a woman jostled him, and at the same instant two men rushed out from the entrance to Jermyn street and attacked him with heavy sticks. One of the men closed with him to prevent his drawing his sword, but he succeeded in freeing one arm, and in defending himself with the small fruit knife which he invariably carried about with him, as was the custom in France and Italy, where fruit is the chief article of diet, he had undoubtedly stabbed his assailant, and by a great mischance he must have severed an artery.

The Bow street runner who had seen the dead body told Reynolds and his friends that he recognised the man as one Jackson, who had formerly held a commission in the army, and had been serving in America, when, being tried by court-martial for some irregularities, he had been sent to England by Cornwallis. He had been living by his wits for some months, and had recently joined a very disreputable gang, who occupied a house in Whetstone Park.

“So far from our friend having been guilty of a criminal offence, it seems to me that he has rid the country of a vile rogue,” said Goldsmith.

“If the jury take that view of the business they'll acquit the gentleman,” said the Bow street runner. “But I fancy the judge will tell them that it's the business of the hangman only to rid the country of its rogues.”

Goldsmith could not but perceive that the man had accurately defined the view which the law was supposed to take of the question of getting rid of the rogues, and his reflections as he drove to his chambers, having parted from Sir Joshua Reynolds and Steevens, made him very unhappy. He could not help feeling that Baretti was the victim of his—Goldsmith's—want of consideration. What right had he, he asked himself, to drag Baretti into a matter in which the Italian had no concern? He felt that a man of the world would certainly have acted with more discretion, and if anything happened to Baretti he would never forgive himself.