And, indeed, we had passed through a most painful winter.  Colonel Clay had stopped away for some months, it is true, and for my own part, I will confess, since it wasn’t my place to pay the piper, I rather missed the wonted excitement than otherwise.  But Charles had grown horribly and morbidly suspicious.  He carried out his principle of “distrusting everybody and disbelieving everything,” till life was a burden to him.  He spotted impossible Colonel Clays under a thousand disguises; he was quite convinced he had frightened his enemy away at least a dozen times over, beneath the varying garb of a fat club waiter, a tall policeman, a washerwoman’s boy, a solicitor’s clerk, the Bank of England beadle, and the collector of water-rates.  He saw him as constantly, and in as changeful forms, as mediæval saints used to see the devil.  Amelia and I really began to fear for the stability of that splendid intellect; we foresaw that unless the Colonel Clay nuisance could be abated somehow, Charles might sink by degrees to the mental level of a common or ordinary Stock-Exchange plunger.

So, when my brother-in-law announced his intention of going away incog. to parts unknown, on the succeeding Saturday, Amelia and I felt a flush of relief from long-continued tension.  Especially Amelia—­who was not going with him.

“For rest and quiet,” he said to us at breakfast, laying down the Morning Post, “give me the deck of an Atlantic liner!  No letters; no telegrams.  No stocks; no shares.  No Times; no Saturday.  I’m sick of these papers!”

“The World is too much with us,” I assented cheerfully.  I regret to say, nobody appreciated the point of my quotation.

Charles took infinite pains, I must admit, to ensure perfect secrecy.  He made me write and secure the best state-rooms—­main deck, amidships—­under my own name, without mentioning his, in the Etruria, for New York, on her very next voyage.  He spoke of his destination to nobody but Amelia; and Amelia warned Césarine, under pains and penalties, on no account to betray it to the other servants.  Further to secure his incog., Charles assumed the style and title of Mr. Peter Porter, and booked as such in the Etruria at Liverpool.

The day before starting, however, he went down with me to the City for an interview with his brokers in Adam’s Court, Old Broad Street.  Finglemore, the senior partner, hastened, of course, to receive us.  As we entered his private room a good-looking young man rose and lounged out.  “Halloa, Finglemore,” Charles said, “that’s that scamp of a brother of yours!  I thought you had shipped him off years and years ago to China?”

“So I did, Sir Charles,” Finglemore answered, rubbing his hands somewhat nervously.  “But he never went there.  Being an idle young dog, with a taste for amusement, he got for the time no further than Paris.  Since then, he’s hung about a bit, here, there, and everywhere, and done no particular good for himself or his family.  But about three or four years ago he somehow ‘struck ile’:  he went to South Africa, poaching on your preserves; and now he’s back again—­rich, married, and respectable.  His wife, a nice little woman, has reformed him.  Well, what can I do for you this morning?”