He was up betimes the next morning, making his preparations for departure. His very small wardrobe--its very smallness regarded by the landlady of the inn as a proof of the eccentricity of literary genius--was packed in a brown-paper parcel. He discharged his modest bill, and began to fidget about until it was time to give his employer a final and fancy sketch of how he had accomplished his mission. Entirely fictional was this sketch intended to be, as widely diverging from fact as possible. Mr. Effingham knew well enough that so long as the removal of Miss Gillespie, or Lizzie Ponsford, had been effected, Sir Charles Mitford would care very little indeed about the means by which it had been accomplished. And as Mr. Effingham was playing a double game, it would be necessary for him to be particularly cautious in making any statement which might reveal the real state of the case to Sir Charles. These reflections, bringing clearly again before him the great fact of the entire business,--that he was being paid for communicating with a person, to communicate with whom he would have gladly paid a considerable sum of money had he possessed it,--put Mr. Effingham into the most satisfactory state of mind, and caused the time, which would otherwise have hung heavily on his hands, to pass pleasantly and quickly. He knew that there was little use in attempting to see Sir Charles before eleven o'clock; so about that time he made his way up the avenue, on this occasion cutting short the old portress, who, contrary to the usual custom, was beginning to enter into some little story. It was Mr. Effingham's plan--and one which is pretty generally adopted in this world, especially by the lower order of Mr. Smiles's friends, the "self-made" men,--to kick down the ladder after he had landed from its top; and as Mr. Effingham thought he should be able to make no more use of this old woman, he did not choose to be bored by her conversation. So he cut her short with a nod, and walked up the avenue with a swaggering gait, which she had never known before, and which very much astonished her. He met no one on his way; and when he reached the house he went modestly round to a side-door leading to the billiard-room, through the window of which he observed no less a personage than Mr. Banks, Sir Charles's man, who was by himself, with his coat off and a cue in his hand trying a few hazards. Mr. Effingham gave a sharp tap at the glass, which made Mr. Banks start guiltily, drop his cue, and resume his garment; but when he looked up and saw who had caused him this fright, he waxed very wroth and said, "Hallo! is it you? what do you want now?" His tone did not at all suit Mr. Effingham, who replied sharply, "Your master; go and tell him I'm here." "He ain't up yet," said Mr. Banks. "Did you hear what I said? Go and tell him I'm here." "Did you hear what _I_ said, that Sir Charles ain't stir-run'?"