“Ah, if you had only known Parkinson!” he exclaimed.

Now the third glass of clean spirit has always a deplorable effect on me.  It turns me from bright to black, from levity to extreme sulkiness.  I have done more wickedness over this third tumbler than in all the other states of comparative inebriety within my experience.  So now I glowered at my companion and cursed.

“Look here, I don’t want to hear any more of Parkinson, and I’ve a pretty clear notion of the game you’re playing.  You want to make me drink, and you’re ready to sit prattling there plying me till I drop under the table.”

“Do me the favour to remember that you came, and are staying, on your own motion.  As for the brandy, I would remind you that I suggested a milder drink.  Try some Madeira.”

He handed me the decanter, as he spoke, and I poured out a glass.

“Madeira!” said I, taking a gulp, “Ugh! it’s the commonest Marsala!”

I had no sooner said the words than he rose up, and stretched a hand gravely across to me.

“I hope you will shake it,” he said; “though, as a man who after three glasses of neat spirit can distinguish between Madeira and Marsala, you have every right to refuse me.  Two minutes ago you offered to become my butler, and I demurred.  I now beg you to repeat that offer.  Say the word, and I employ you gladly; you shall even have the second decanter (which contains genuine Madeira) to take to bed with you.”

We shook hands on our bargain, and catching up a candlestick, he led the way from the room.

Picking up my boots, I followed him along the passage and down the silent staircase.  In the hall he paused to stand on tip-toe, and turn up the lamp, which was burning low.  As he did so, I found time to fling a glance at my old enemy, the mastiff.  He lay as I had first seen him—­ a stuffed dog, if ever there was one.  “Decidedly,” thought I, “my wits are to seek to-night;” and with the same, a sudden suspicion made me turn to my conductor, who had advanced to the left-hand door, and was waiting for me, with a hand on the knob.

“One moment!” I said:  “This is all very pretty, but how am I to know you’re not sending me to bed while you fetch in all the countryside to lay me by the heels?”

“I’m afraid,” was his answer, “you must be content with my word, as a gentleman, that never, to-night or hereafter, will I breathe a syllable about the circumstances of your visit.  However, if you choose, we will return up-stairs.”

“No; I’ll trust you,” said I; and he opened the door.

It led into a broad passage paved with slate, upon which three or four rooms opened.  He paused by the second and ushered me into a sleeping-chamber, which, though narrow, was comfortable enough—­a vast improvement, at any rate, on the mumpers’ lodgings I had been used to for many months past.

“You can undress here,” he said.  “The sheets are aired, and if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch a nightshirt—­one of my own.”