"Will you leave me in this condition?" he said, with an imploring eye.
"You will hear from me. Good night."
In the midst of all these supernaturals, I remained myself pretty natural—got naturally among the comfortable bed-clothes, fell naturally asleep, and, in consequence of late hours, slept naturally longer than I intended. I started at seven, got my bag, and, without seeing Graeme, set out for C—— town, got breakfast, and then took the stage for a seaport not very far distant. Having arrived at my destination, I sought out the Eastergate, a dirty street inhabited by poor people, mounted three pair of stairs till I saw through a slate-pane, knocked at a door, and was met by a woman, with an umbrageously bearded face peering out from the side of her head-gear—that is, there was a head there in addition to her own.
"The devil!" said the man. "How did you find me out?"
"By the trail of evil," I said, as I walked in, and shut the door behind me.
"Did you not know I was dead?" he continued, by way of desperate raillery.
"Yes, the devil was once reported to be dead and buried in a certain long town, but it was only a feint, whereby to catch the unwary Whigs. Let us have seats. I want a little quiet conversation with you both."
We seemed rather a comfortable party round the fire.
"Ruggieri," said I, "do you know that scar?"
"I have certainly seen it before," replied he, with the utmost composure.