Like one running in a nightmare and making no progress I made my way home, only to learn from Hallam,—­who lived on the same floor,—­that Tom had inconsiderately gone to Boston for the evening, with four other weary spirits in search of relaxation!  Avoiding our club table, I took what little nourishment I could at a modest restaurant, and restlessly paced the moonlit streets until eight o’clock, when I found myself in front of one of those low-gabled colonial houses which, on less soul-shaking occasions, had exercised a great charm on my imagination.  My hand hung for an instant over the bell....  I must have rung it violently, for there appeared almost immediately an old lady in a lace cap, who greeted me with gentle courtesy, and knocked at a little door with glistening panels.  The latch was lifted by Mr. Cheyne himself.

“Come in, Paret,” he said, in a tone that was unexpectedly hospitable.

I have rarely seen a more inviting room.  A wood fire burned brightly on the brass andirons, flinging its glare on the big, white beam that crossed the ceiling, and reddening the square panes of the windows in their panelled recesses.  Between these were rows of books,—­attractive books in chased bindings, red and blue; books that appealed to be taken down and read.  There was a table covered with reviews and magazines in neat piles, and a lamp so shaded as to throw its light only on the white blotter of the pad.  Two easy chairs, covered with flowered chintz, were ranged before the fire, in one of which I sank, much bewildered, upon being urged to do so.

I utterly failed to recognize “Alonzo” in this new atmosphere.  And he had, moreover, dropped the subtly sarcastic manner I was wont to associate with him.

“Jolly old house, isn’t it?” he observed, as though I had casually dropped in on him for a chat; and he stood, with his hands behind him stretched to the blaze, looking down at me.  “It was built by a certain Colonel Draper, who fought at Louisburg, and afterwards fled to England at the time of the Revolution.  He couldn’t stand the patriots, I’m not so sure that I blame him, either.  Are you interested in colonial things, Mr. Paret?”

I said I was.  If the question had concerned Aztec relics my answer would undoubtedly have been the same.  And I watched him, dazedly, while he took down a silver porringer from the shallow mantel shelf.

“It’s not a Revere,” he said, in a slightly apologetic tone as though to forestall a comment, “but it’s rather good, I think.  I picked it up at a sale in Dorchester.  But I have never been able to identify the coat of arms.”

He showed me a ladle, with the names of “Patience and William Simpson” engraved quaintly thereon, and took down other articles in which I managed to feign an interest.  Finally he seated himself in the chair opposite, crossed his feet, putting the tips of his fingers together and gazing into the fire.

“So you thought you could fool me,” he said, at length.