It so happened that, the next day, I dined with C——.  Of course the masquerade, and with that the tailor, were the first topics of conversation between us.  Both allowed that the circumstances respecting his late appearance were uncommon; but there, with my friend, the matter ended:  with me it was a more enduring subject for reflection; and, after a night kept up till a late hour over a bowl of C——­’s most faultless punch, I set out, moody and apprehensive, to my humble abode.  By this time it was past three o’clock; the streets were nearly all deserted.—­While thoughtfully plodding onwards, a sudden noise from the Holborn end of Drury-lane took my attention; it evidently proceeded from a row—­a systematic, scientific row; and, indeed, as I drew near the scene of action, I could distinctly hear the watchman’s oaths blending in deep chorus with the treble of some dozen or two valorous exquisites.

I felt certain rising abstract ideas of pugnacity, and conceived myself bound to indulge them on the first head and shoulders I should meet.  This spirit brought me at once into the thick of the fight, and, before I was well aware of my proximity, I found myself fast anchored alongside a veteran watchman, with a pigtail and half a nose.  The conflict now commenced in good earnest; there were few or no attempts at favouritism; the blows of one friend told equally well on the scull of another; watchman assaulted watchman with a zeal respectable for its sincerity; and, indeed, had these last been any thing more than a bundle of old coats and oaths, they would most undoubtedly have drubbed each other into a better world.  After a lively and well-sustained affair of about twenty minutes, a squadron of auxiliary watchmen arrived, and, with some difficulty, deposited us all safely in the watch-house.  And here the very first person that met my gaze—­seated, with due regard to dignity, in an arm-chair, a pair of spectacles on his nose, a glass of brandy-and-water by his side, and a newspaper, redolent of cheese, before him—­was the constable of the night—­the nun of the masquerade—­the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn!  The wretch’s eyes gleamed with a savage but subdued joy at the recognition; a low, chuckling laugh escaped him; while his dull countenance, made doubly revolting by the dim light of the watch-house, fell, fixed and scowling, upon me, as he pointed towards the spot where I stood.—­“Dobson,” he exclaimed; and, at the word, forth stepped the owner of this melodious appellative, with “this here man.”—­Luckily, before he could finish his charge, a five-shilling-piece, which I thrust into his unsuspecting palm, created a diversion among the watchmen in my behalf; under favour of which, while my arch enemy was adjusting his books, I contrived to escape from his detested presence.

It happened that about a month subsequent to this last rencontre, circumstances led me to Bologne, whither I arrived, late in the evening, by the steamboat.  On being directed to the best English hotel in that truly social Anglo-Gallic little town, I chanced to find in the coffee-room an old crony, whom I had known years since at Cambridge, and who had just arrived from Switzerland, on a speculation connected with some vineyards.