Dunburne’s mysterious guide, still carrying the lantern, conducted him directly up a broad flight of steps, and opening the door, ushered him into a hallway of no inconsiderable pretensions.  Thence he led the way to a dining-room beyond, where our young gentleman observed a long mahogany table, and a sideboard of carved mahogany illuminated by three or four candles.  In answer to the call of his conductor, a negro servant appeared, whom the master of the house ordered to fetch some bread and cheese and a bottle of rum for his wretched guest.  While the servant was gone to execute the commission the master seated himself at his ease and favored Dunburne with a long and most minute regard.  Then he suddenly asked our young gentleman what was his name.

Upon the instant Dunburne did not offer a reply to this interrogation.  He had been so miserably abused when he had told the truth upon the voyage that he knew not now whether to confess or deny his identity.  He possessed no great aptitude at lying, so that it was with no little hesitation that he determined to maintain his incognito.  Having reached this conclusion, he answered his host that his name was Tom Robinson.  The other, however, appeared to notice neither his hesitation nor the name which he had seen fit to assume.  Instead, he appeared to be lost in a reverie, which he broke only to bid our young gentleman to sit down and tell the story of the several adventures that had befallen him.  He advised him to leave nothing untold, however shameful it might be.  “Be assured,” said he, “that no matter what crimes you may have committed, the more intolerable your wickedness, the better you will please me for the purpose I have in view.”

Being thus encouraged, and having already embarked in disingenuosity, our young gentleman, desiring to please his host, began at random a tale composed in great part of what he recollected of the story of Colonel Jack, seasoned occasionally with extracts from Mr. Smollett’s ingenious novel of Ferdinand, Count Fathom.  There was hardly a petty crime or a mean action mentioned in either of these entertaining fictions that he was not willing to attribute to himself.  Meanwhile he discovered, to his surprise, that lying was not really so difficult an art as he had supposed it to be.  His host listened for a considerable while in silence, but at last he was obliged to call upon his penitent to stop.  “To tell you the truth, Mr. What’s-a-name,” he cried, “I do not believe a single word you are telling me.  However, I am satisfied that in you I have discovered, as I have every reason to hope, one of the most preposterous liars I have for a long time fell in with.  Indeed, I protest that any one who can with so steady a countenance lie so tremendously as you have just done may be capable, if not of a great crime, at least of no inconsiderable deceit, and perhaps of treachery.  If this be so, you will suit my purposes very well, though I would rather have had you an escaped criminal or a murderer or a thief.”