In the midst of all these supernaturals, I remained myself pretty natural—­got naturally among the comfortable bed-clothes, fell naturally asleep, and, in consequence of late hours, slept naturally longer than I intended.  I started at seven, got my bag, and, without seeing Graeme, set out for C——­ town, got breakfast, and then took the stage for a seaport not very far distant.  Having arrived at my destination, I sought out the Eastergate, a dirty street inhabited by poor people, mounted three pair of stairs till I saw through a slate-pane, knocked at a door, and was met by a woman, with an umbrageously bearded face peering out from the side of her head-gear—­that is, there was a head there in addition to her own.

“The devil!” said the man.  “How did you find me out?”

“By the trail of evil,” I said, as I walked in, and shut the door behind me.

“Did you not know I was dead?” he continued, by way of desperate raillery.

“Yes, the devil was once reported to be dead and buried in a certain long town, but it was only a feint, whereby to catch the unwary Whigs.  Let us have seats.  I want a little quiet conversation with you both.”

We seemed rather a comfortable party round the fire.

“Ruggieri,” said I, “do you know that scar?”

“I have certainly seen it before,” replied he, with the utmost composure.

“Well, you know the attack you made upon me at Brussels, for the convenient purpose of getting buried along with your victim a certain little piece of dirty paper I have in my pocket, whereby you became bound to pay to me a thousand florins which I lent you, on the faith of one I took for a gentleman.”

“The scar I deny,” he replied, unblushingly; “and as for the bit of paper, if you can find any one in these parts who can prove that the signature thereto was written by this hand belonging to this person now sitting before you, you will accomplish something more wonderful than finding me out here.”  And he laughed in his old boisterous way.

“The more difficult, I daresay,” replied I, as I fixed a pretty inquisitive gaze on him, “that you have a duplicate to your real name of Charles Rogers.”

“’Tis a lie!” he exclaimed.  “My father was—­was—­yes—­an artist in Bologna—­the cleverest magician in Italy.”

“And that is the reason,” said I calmly, “that your brother the doctor works his tricks so cleverly at the Moated Grange.”

Subtle officers accomplish much by attacks of surprise—­going home with a fact known to the criminal to be true, but supposed by him to be unknown to all the world besides.  I had acted on this principle, and the effect was singular.  His tongue, which had laid in a stock of nervous fluid for roaring like a steam-boiler a little opened, was palsied.  He turned on me a blank look; then, directing his eye to the woman, “You infernal hag,” he exclaimed, “all this comes from you!”