He had altered but little. His legs were perhaps more bowed, the checks of his trousers a trifle larger, and the part in his iron-gray hair less regular than in the old days, but the general effect was the same--the same flashy waistcoat, the same long gold watch-chain baited with charms, the same shiny, bell-crown silk hat, and the same shade of green kid gloves--same pair, I think. Nor had his manner changed--that cringing, deferential, attentive manner which is so flattering at first to the unsuspecting and inexperienced, and so positive and top-lofty when his final accounts are submitted--particularly if they are disputed. The voice, too, had lost none of its soft, purring quality--a church-whisper-voice with the drone of the organ in it. And yet withal Joseph is not a bad fellow. Once he knows the size of your pocket-book he willingly adapts his expenditures to its contents. Ofttimes, it is true, there is nothing left but the pocket-book, but then some couriers would take that. When he is in doubt as to the amount, he tries experiments. I have learned since that the lay-out for the bride and groom that night in Milan was only one of his experiments--the proprietor being co-conspirator. The coach belonged to the hotel; the game supper was moved up from the restaurant, and the flowers had been left over from a dinner the night before. Had they all done duty, Joseph's commissions would have been that much larger. As it was, he collected his percentage only on the coach and the two men on the box and the flunkeys at the head of the stairs. These had been _used_. The other preparations were only looked at. Then again, Joseph not only speaks seven languages, but he speaks them well--for Joseph--so much so that a stranger is never sure of his nationality. "Are you French, Joseph?" I once asked him. "No." "Dutch?" "No." "What, then?" "I am a Jew gentleman from Germany." He lied, of course. He's a Levantine from Constantinople, with Greek, Armenian, Hindu, and perhaps some Turkish blood in his veins. This combination insures him good temper, capacity, and imagination--not a bad mixture for a courier. Besides, he is reasonably honest--not punctiliously so--not as to francs, perhaps, but certainly as to fifty-pound notes--that is, he was while he served me. Of course, I never had a fifty-pound note--not all at once--but if I had had I don't think he would have absorbed it--not if I had signed it on the back for identification and had kept it in a money-belt around my waist and close to my skin.