discomforts that might have daunted the most brave; and the white table napery, the bright crystal, the reverberation of the fire, the red curtains, the Turkey carpet, the portraits on the coffee-room wall, the placid faces of the two or three late guests who were silently prolonging the pleasures of digestion, and (last, but not by any means least) a glass of an excellent light dry port, put me in a humour only to be described as heavenly.  The thought of the Colonel, of how he would have enjoyed this snug room and roaring fire, and of his cold grave in the wood by Market Bosworth, lingered on my palate, amari aliquid, like an after-taste, but was not able—­I say it with shame—­entirely to dispel my self-complacency.  After all, in this world every dog hangs by its own tail.  I was a free adventurer, who had just brought to a successful end—­or, at least, within view of it—­an adventure very difficult and alarming; and I looked across at Mr. Dudgeon, as the port rose to his cheeks, and a smile, that was semi-confidential and a trifle foolish, began to play upon his leathery features, not only with composure, but with a suspicion of kindness.  The rascal had been brave, a quality for which I would value the devil; and if he had been pertinacious in the beginning, he had more than made up for it before the end.

‘And now, Dudgeon, to explain,’ I began.  ’I know your master, he knows me, and he knows and approves of my errand.  So much I may tell you, that I am on my way to Amersham Place.’

‘Oho!’ quoth Dudgeon, ‘I begin to see.’

‘I am heartily glad of it,’ said I, passing the bottle, ’because that is about all I can tell you.  You must take my word for the remainder.  Either believe me or don’t.  If you don’t, let’s take a chaise; you can carry me to-morrow to High Holborn, and confront me with Mr. Romaine; the result of which will be to set your mind at rest—­and to make the holiest disorder in your master’s plans.  If I judge you aright (for I find you a shrewd fellow), this will not be at all to your mind.  You know what a subordinate gets by officiousness; if I can trust my memory, old Romaine has not at all the face that I should care to see in anger; and I venture to predict surprising results upon your weekly salary—­if you are paid by the week, that is.  In short, let me go free, and ’tis an end of the matter; take me to London, and ’tis only a beginning—­and, by my opinion, a beginning of troubles.  You can take your choice.’

‘And that is soon taken,’ said he.  ’Go to Amersham tomorrow, or go to the devil if you prefer—­I wash my hands of you and the whole transaction.  No, you don’t find me putting my head in between Romaine and a client!  A good man of business, sir, but hard as millstone grit.  I might get the sack, and I shouldn’t wonder!  But, it’s a pity, too,’ he added, and sighed, shook his head, and took his glass off sadly.

‘That reminds me,’ said I.  ’I have a great curiosity, and you can satisfy it.  Why were you so forward to meddle with poor Mr. Dubois?  Why did you transfer your attentions to me?  And generally, what induced you to make yourself such a nuisance?’