“I am but looking to Mr. Carvel’s interests the best I know how,” he replied; “and if indeed you be Mr. Richard Carvel, then you must applaud my caution, sir, in seeking proofs.”

“Proofs I have none,” I cried; “the very clothes on my back are borrowed from a Scotch seaman.  My God, Mr. Dix, do I look like a rogue?”

“Were I to advance money upon appearances, sir, I should be insolvent in a fortnight.  But stay,” he cried uneasily, as I flung back my chair, “stay, sir.  Is there no one of your province in the town to attest your identity?”

“Ay, that there is,” I said bitterly; “you shall hear from Mr. Manners soon, I promise you.”

“Pray, Mr. Carvel,” he said, overtaking me on the stairs, “you will surely allow the situation to be—­extraordinary, you will surely commend my discretion.  Permit me, sir, to go with you to Arlington Street.”  And he sent a lad in haste to the Exchange for a hackney-chaise, which was soon brought around.

I got in, somewhat mollified, and ashamed of my heat:  still disliking the man, but acknowledging he had the better right on his side.  True to his kind he gave me every mark of politeness now, asked particularly after Mr. Carvel’s health, and encouraged me to give him as much of my adventure as I thought proper.  But what with the rattle of the carriage and the street noises and my disgust, I did not care to talk, and presently told him as much very curtly.  He persisted, how:  ever, in pointing out the sights, the Fleet prison, and where the Ludgate stood six years gone; and the Devil’s Tavern, of old Ben Jonson’s time, and the Mitre and the Cheshire Cheese and the Cock, where Dr. Johnson might be found near the end of the week at his dinner.  He showed me the King’s Mews above Charing Cross, and the famous theatre in the Haymarket, and we had but turned the corner into Piccadilly when he cried excitedly at a passing chariot: 

“There, Mr. Carvel, there go my Lord North and Mr. Rigby!”

“The devil take them, Mr. Dix!” I exclaimed.

He was silent after that, glancing at me covertly from while to while until we swung into Arlington Street.  Before I knew we were stopped in front of the house, but as I set foot on the step I found myself confronted by a footman in the Manners livery, who cried out angrily to our man:  “Make way, make way for his Grace of Chartersea!” Turning, I saw a coach behind, the horses dancing at the rear wheels of the chaise.  We alighted hastily, and I stood motionless, my heart jumping quick and hard in the hope and fear that Dorothy was within, my eye fixed on the coach door.  But when the footman pulled it open and lowered the step, out lolled a very broad man with a bloated face and little, beady eyes without a spark of meaning, and something very like a hump was on the top of his back.  He wore a yellow top-coat, and red-heeled shoes of the latest fashion, and I settled at once he was the Duke of Chartersea.