“Found it on the hall table, sir,” the man answered, in the same tone. “Fancy,” with a grin, “it’s a runaway knock, sir. Known a man find a cabbage at the door and a whole year’s wages under it—at election time, sir! Yes, sir. Find funny things in funny places—election time, sir.” Vaughan made no reply, but a few minutes later he took his hat and descending the stairs, strolled with an easy air into the street. He paused as if to contemplate the Abbey Church, beautiful even in its disfigurement. Then, but as if he were careless which way he went, he turned to the right. The main street, with its whitened doorsteps and gleaming knockers, lay languid in the sunshine; perhaps, enervated by the dissipation of the previous evening. The candidates who would presently pay formal visits to the voters were not yet afoot: and though taverns where the tap was running already gave forth maudlin laughter, no other sign of the coming event declared itself. A few tradesmen stood at their doors, a few dogs lay stretched in the sun; and only Vaughan’s common sense told him that he was watched. From the High Street he presently turned into a narrow alley on the right which descended between garden walls to the lower level of the town. A man who was lounging in the mouth of the alley muttered “second door on the left,” as Vaughan passed, and the latter moved on counting the doors. At the one indicated he paused, and, after making certain that he was not observed, he knocked. The door opened a little way. “For whom are you?” asked someone who kept himself out of sight. “Buff and Blue,” Vaughan answered. “Right; sir,” the voice rejoined briskly. The door opened wide and Vaughan passed in. He found himself in a small walled garden smothered in lilac and laburnum, and shaded by two great chestnut trees already so fully in leaf as to hide the house to which the garden belonged. The person who had admitted him, a very small, very neat gentleman in a high-collared blue coat and nankeen trousers, with a redundant soft cravat wound about his thin neck, bowed low. “Happy to see you, Mr. Vaughan,” he chirped. “I am Mr. Pybus, his lordship’s man of business. Happy to be the intermediary in so pleasant a matter.” “I hope it may turn out so,” Vaughan replied drily. “You wrote me a very mysterious note.” “Can’t be too careful, sir,” the little man, who was said to model himself upon Lord John Russell, answered with an important frown. “Can’t be too careful in these matters. You’re watched and I am watched, sir.” “I dare say,” Vaughan replied. “And the responsibility is great, very great. May I——” he continued, pulling out his box, “but I dare say you don’t take snuff?” “No.” “No? The younger generation! Just so! Many of the young gentry smoke, I am told. Other days, other manners! Well—we know of course what happened last night. And I’m bound to say, I honour you, Mr. Vaughan! I honour you, sir.” “You can let that pass,” Vaughan replied coldly.