I set off on a wild goose chase—and fall in with an old friend.
The next morning Timothy had procured me another valet, and throwing off his liveries, made his appearance in the evening, sending up to say a man wished to speak to me. He was dressed in highlow boots, worsted stockings, greasy leather small clothes, a shag waistcoat, and a blue frock overall. His face was stained of a dark olive, and when he was ushered in, Harcourt, who was sitting at table with me, had not the slightest recognition of him. As Harcourt knew all my secrets, I had confided this; I had not told him what Timothy's intentions were, as I wished to ascertain whether his disguise was complete. I had merely said I had given Timothy leave for a few days.
"Perhaps you may wish me away for a short time," said Harcourt, looking at Tim.
"Not at all, my dear Harcourt, why should I? There's nobody here but you and Timothy."
"Timothy! excellent—upon my word, I never should have known him."
"He is going forth on his adventures."
"And if you please, sir, I will lose no time. It is now dark, and I know where the gipsy hangs out."
"Success attend you then; but be careful, Tim. You had better write to me, instead of calling."
"I had the same idea; and now I wish you a good evening."
When Timothy quitted the room, I explained our intentions to Harcourt. "Yours is a strange adventurous sort of life, Newland; you are constantly plotted against, and plotting in your turn—mines and counter-mines. I have an idea that you will turn out some grand personage after all; for if not, why should there be all this trouble about you?"