“How far are we from Neuwied here?” asked Davis, half pettishly; for every pretension of his reverend friend seemed to jar upon his nerves. “About sixteen or eighteen miles, I should say?” “I must go or send over there to-morrow,” continued Davis. “The postmaster sends me word that several letters have arrived,--some to my address, some to my care. Could you manage to drive across?” “Willingly; only remember that once I leave this blessed sanctuary I may find the door closed against my return. They 've a strange legislation here--” “I know--I 've heard of it,” broke in Davis. “I 'll guarantee everything, so that you need have no fears on that score. Start at daybreak, and fetch back all letters you find there for me or for the Honorable Annesley Beecher.” “The Honorable Annesley Beecher!” said Classon, as he wrote the name in his note-book. “Dear me! the last time I heard that name was--let me see--fully twelve years ago. It was after that affair at Brighton. I wrote an article for the 'Heart of Oak,' on the 'Morality of our Aristocracy.' How I lashed their vices! how I stigmatized their lives of profligacy and crime!” “You infernal old hypocrite!” cried Davis, with a half-angry laugh. “There was no hypocrisy in that, Kit. If I tell you that a statue is bad in drawing, or incorrect in anatomy, I never assert thereby that I myself have the torso of Hercules or the limbs of Antinous.” “Leave people's vices alone, then; they 're the same as their debts; if you're not going to pay them, you 've no right to talk about them.” “Only on public grounds, Kit Our duty to society, my dear friend, has its own requirements!” “Fiddlestick!” said Davis, angrily, as he pushed his glass from before him; then, after a moment, went on: “Do you start early, so as to be back here before evening,--my mind is running on it. There's three naps,” said he, placing the gold pieces on the table. “You'll not want more.” “Strange magnetism is the touch of gold to one's palm,” said Classon, as he surveyed the money in the hollow of his hand. “How marvellous that these bits of stamped metal should appeal so forcibly to my inner consciousness!” “Don't get drunk with them, that's all,” said Davis, with a stern savagery of manner, as he arose from his seat. “There's my passport,--you may have to show it at the office. And now, good-bye, for I have a long letter to write to my daughter.” Classon poured the last of the Burgundy into a tumbler, and drank it off, and hiccuping out, “I'll haste me to the Capitol!” left the room. CHAPTER VI. IMMINENT TIDINGS