The landlord and waiter bowed and went out of the room.  I turned the key of the door, put on my Quaker’s coat, and made a hearty supper, for I had had nothing since breakfast.  When I had finished, I returned to the sofa, and I could not help analysing my own conduct.  “Alas,” thought I, “Susannah, how rightly did you judge me!  I am not away from you more than eighteen hours, and here I am ashamed of the dress which I have so long worn, and been satisfied with, in your society.  Truly did you say that I was full of pride, and would joyfully re-enter the world of vanity and vexation.”  And I thought of Susannah, and her tears after my supposed departure, and I felt angry and annoyed at my want of strength of mind and my worldly feelings.

I retired early to bed, and did not wake until late the next morning.  When I rang the bell, the chambermaid brought in my clothes from the tailor’s:  I dressed, and I will not deny that I was pleased with the alteration.  After breakfast I ordered a coach, and drove to No. 16, Throgmorton Court, Minories.  The house was dirty outside, and the windows had not been cleaned apparently for years, and it was with some difficulty when I went in that I could decipher a tall, haggard-looking man seated at the desk.

“Your pleasure, sir?” said he.

“Am I speaking to the principal?” replied I.

“Yes, sir, my name is Chatfield.”

“I come to you, sir, relative to an advertisement which appeared in the papers.  I refer to this,” continued I, putting the newspaper down on the desk, and pointing to the advertisement.

“Oh, yes, very true:  can you give us any information?”

“Yes, sir, I can, and the most satisfactory.”

“Then, sir, I am sorry that you have had so much trouble, but you must call at Lincoln’s Inn upon a lawyer of the name of Masterton:  the whole affair is now in his hands.”

“Can you, sir, inform me who is the party that is inquiring after this young man?”

“Why, yes; it is a General De Benyon, who has lately returned from the East Indies.”

“Good God! is it possible!” thought I; “how strange that my own wild fancy should have settled upon him as my father!”

I hurried away, threw myself into the hackney-coach, and desired the man to drive to Lincoln’s Inn.  I hastened up to Mr Masterton’s rooms:  he was fortunately at home, although he stood at the table with his hat and his great coat on, ready to go out.

“My dear sir, have you forgotten me?” said I, in a voice choked with emotion, taking his hand and squeezing it with rapture.

“By heavens, you are determined that I shall not forget you for some minutes, at least,” exclaimed he, wringing his hand with pain.  “Who the devil are you?”

Mr Masterton could not see without his spectacles, and my subdued voice he had not recognised.  He pulled them out, as I made no reply, and fixing them across his nose—­“Hah! why yes—­it is Japhet, is it not?”