Jeanette went upon her way to Berkeley square, while I hurried on toward the lodgings of Westover, the hour of meeting which he had named having long passed.
I found a chariot, with flaming lamps, at his door, and was admitted immediately by a servant in livery, who seemed to be waiting in the hall; but before I could mount the stair-case, I was met by Westover himself, coming down with his hat on.
“Come with me, Louis,” he said; “come with me. Thank God for this night’s work.”
“Where are you going to take me?” I asked.
“Never mind at present,” he answered, “to a house where you have never been.”
My heart beat with very strange sensations; but I followed him to the carriage, and got in with him. When the door was closed, the servant touched his hat, inquiringly, and Westover said, “home.”
It was the only word he spoke during the drive, which was short enough.
At length, the carriage drew up at the door of a large house, a thundering knock resounded through the square, and we both got out and entered a hall, in which several powdered servants were standing. Westover passed them all, without a word, and I followed. We went up a magnificent stair-case, lined with old portraits, till my companion paused suddenly, laying his hand upon the lock of a door upon the first floor.
“Go in, Louis,” he said, in a low voice, “go in.”
“Will you not come in to introduce me?” I said.