hich goes to prove she doth
but think the more, and we must keep the truth from her at all hazards,
Dick--she'll know soon enough, poor, dear lass. Now, should she ask
us--as ask us she will, 'twere best to have something to tell her--let's
say, he slipped somewhere!"

"Aye," I nodded, "we'll tell her he twisted his ankle coming down the
step at 'The Chequers'--would to God he had!" So saying, we clapped on
our hats and sallied out together arm in arm. Jack and I are near
neighbours, so that a walk of some fifteen minutes brought us to the
Manor, and proceeding at once to the library, we found him with his leg
upon a cushion and a bottle of Oporto at his elbow--a-cursing most
lustily.

"Well, Jack," says Bentley, as he paused for breath, "and how is the
leg?"

"Leg!" roars Jack, "leg, sir--look at it--useless as a log--as a cursed
log of wood, sir--snapped a tendon--so Purdy says, but Purdy's a damned
pessimistic fellow--the devil anoint all doctors, say I!"

"And pray, what might be the meaning of this note of yours?" and I held
it out towards him.

"Meaning," cries Jack, "can't you read--don't I tell you? The
insufferable insolence of the fellow."

"Faith!" says I, "if it's Raikes you mean, anything is believable of
him--"

"Raikes!" roars Jack, louder than ever, "fiddle-de-dee, sir! who
mentioned that rascal--you got my note?"

"In which you carefully made mention of no one."

"Well, I meant to, and that's all the difference."

"To be sure," added Bentley,--"it's young Tawnish; anybody but a fool
would know that."

"To be sure," nodded Jack. "Dick," says he, turning upon me suddenly,
"Dick, could you have passed over such an insult as we saw Raikes put
upon him the other day?"

"No!" I answered, very short, "and you know it."

Jack turned to Bentley with a groan.

"And you, Bentley, come now," says he, "you could, eh!--come now?"

"Not unless I was asleep or stone blind, or deaf," says Bentley.

"Damme! and why not?" cries Jack, and then groaned again. "I was afraid
so," says he, "I was afraid so."

"Jack, what the devil do you mean?" I exclaimed.

For answer he tossed a crumpled piece of paper across to me. "Read
that," says he, "I got it not an hour since--read it aloud." Hereupon,
smoothing out the creases, I read the following:

TONBRIDGE, OCTR. 30th, 1740.

MY DEAR SIR JOHN,

Fortune, that charming though much vilified dame, hath for once