Mr. Courtland deliberately pinned the napkin to his waistcoat, ordered all the windows to be thrown open, and set to work like the good Canon in Gil Blas. He still retained enough of his former self, to preserve an excellent cook; so far at least as the excellence of a she-artist goes; and though most of his viands were of the plainest, who does not know what skill it requires to produce an unexceptionable roast, or a blameless boil? Talk of good professed cooks, indeed! they are plentiful as blackberries: it is the good, plain cook, who is the rarity! Half a tureen of strong soup; three pounds, at least, of stewed carp; all the under part of a sirloin of beef; three quarters of a tongue; the moiety of a chicken; six pancakes and a tartlet, having severally disappeared down the jaws of the invalid, “Et cuncta terrarum subacta Praeter atrocem animum Catonis,” [And everything of earth subdued, except the resolute mind of Cato.] he still called for two deviled biscuits and an anchovy! When these were gone, he had the wine set on a little table by the window, and declared that the air seemed closer than ever. Walter was no longer surprised at the singular nature of the nonhypochondriac’s complaint. Walter declined the bed that Mr. Courtland offered him--though his host kindly assured him that it had no curtains, and that there was not a shutter to the house--upon the plea of starting the next morning at daybreak, and his consequent unwillingness to disturb the regular establishment of the invalid: and Courtland, who was still an excellent, hospitable, friendly man, suffered his friend’s nephew to depart with regret. He supplied him, however, by a reference to an old note-book, with the date of the year, and even month, in which he had been favoured by a visit from Mr. Clarke, who, it seemed, had also changed his Christian name from Geoffrey, to one beginning with D--; but whether it was David or Daniel the host remembered not. In parting with Walter, Courtland shook his head, and observed:--“Entre nous, Sir, I fear this may be a wildgoose chase. Your father was too facetious to confine himself to fact--excuse me, Sir--and perhaps the Colonel and the legacy were merely inventions--pour passer le temps--there was only one reason indeed, that made me fully believe the story.” “What was that, Sir?” asked Walter, blushing deeply, at the universality of that estimation his father had obtained. “Excuse me, my young friend.” “Nay, Sir, let me press you.” “Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey Lester did not ask me to lend him any money.” The next morning, instead of repairing to the gaieties of the metropolis, Walter had, upon this slight and dubious clue, altered his journey northward, and with an unquiet yet sanguine spirit, the adventurous son commenced his search after the fate of a father evidently so unworthy of the anxiety he had excited. CHAPTER VIII.