In fact, he didn’t seem as though afflicted with his late sickness, for his flesh was cool, and his face pale, but for all that he trembled violently, and as though attacked with the ague.

“I thought that I recognized the voice,” our patient said, in a half whisper, and in a listening attitude, “but I may have been mistaken.”

“Hullo, within there—­open the door, and sell me a quart of the best quality,” cried the rough voice on the outside, accompanied by another violent shake of the door that made every thing jar again.

Rover uttered a threatening howl, and pawed at the door as though desirous of inserting his teeth into the body of the brawler.

“I was certain that I could not be mistaken,” exclaimed Mr. Critchet, in a hoarse whisper.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Will you let me have the liquor?  Say yes or no,” cried the impatient fellow on the outside, with an oath.

“I am positive that that is the voice of my brother-in-law,” Mr. Critchet said.  “I have not heard him speak before for six years, yet there are some things that I cannot forget.  What shall I do?  How shall I act?”

“Do you wish to speak to him?” I asked; “if so, we will admit him, and trust to our arms for security.  Not a hair of your head shall be injured, even though you tell him disagreeable truths.”

“What say you?  Are you awake?  Shall I have the rum?” continued our midnight visitor.

I waited for the old gentleman to come to some conclusion, and although he was intensely agitated at the thought of an interview, he gave a token of assent.

“Call off the dog and let him come in,” said Fred, “and do you keep in the background for the present,” addressing our guest.

I quieted Rover with a word, and then unbolted and unbarred the door and threw it open, feeling some curiosity to see the man who had had the audacity to commit extensive forgeries, and yet escape the punishment of the law, especially when the criminal code of England is so rigid that rank or station in life is not respected.

“Well, sleepy heads, have you woke up?” was the impudent question that first greeted me, and through the door strode a tall, powerful-built man, with dark whiskers which covered his face almost to his eyelids, and long, black hair plentifully sprinkled with gray.  He wore a short monkey-jacket, such as sailors are in the habit of adopting as a convenient overcoat for working aloft on shipboard—­a blue flannel shirt, with large collar turned over and confined to his neck with a black silk handkerchief—­a pair of fancy colored pants, somewhat soiled and worn, yet a little better than the majority of the miners were accustomed to wear at Ballarat—­and lastly, the visitor had on his head a felt hat of ample proportions, such as the stockmen and shepherds of Australia have adopted to protect their heads from the noonday heat, and eyes from the bright sun, while scouring the plains in search of cattle.