"Figure? Well, there ain't no ghosts or ghostesses either in the Red Lion that ever I heard of, and I have been here both man and boy these many years." "How is this traveller dressed?" I continued. "In brown broadcloth, I think, master." "With a rusty old cocked hat?" "Yes, bound with black galloon." "Is his left hand wounded?" "Don't know," replied the waiter, yawning, "for he keeps it always in his weskit pocket." My suspicions now amounted to certainty. He was my acquaintance of Wandsworth Common--the highwayman, beyond a doubt. We were certainly in too close proximity, but the landlord of the inn was too tipsy to be referred to, and I had no desire to be detained upon the morrow, charged as I was with important papers for the commodore at Portsmouth, thus I made no more remarks, but took the candle, entered my room, and shut the door. The apartment was entirely pannelled with dark wainscot, hence its aspect was quaint and gloomy; the furniture was uncomfortably antique, for this being one of the upper and cheaper lodgings of the Red Lion, the whole appurtenances were the oldest in the house, having gradually retired from story to story, till their last service was to be spent in the attics. The fireplace was wide, lined with blue Dutch tiles, and had a little old-fashioned basket grate, set upon square blocks of stone. From the latticed window I could see the Wye winding under the bridge, the dark arches of which were clearly reflected in its starlit current beneath. Two strong bolts secured my door, so there was no danger of being surprised by my friend in the snuff-coloured suit through that avenue. I threw off my belts and uniform, and slipped into a bed that felt cold, damp, and old, for the moths flew out of the russet-coloured canopy and hangings, to flutter about the candle end, the light of which expired just at the moment when I had no further use for it. I felt feverish, wakeful, and full of many thoughts. Then there were strange sounds in this old house rather calculated to banish sleep; the night wind moaned in the wide chimneys: rats scampered about behind the decaying wainscot, scattering fragments of lime in their career. It might be fancy, but twice some one seemed to lift the latch of my door softly as if attempting to open it. Ere sleep began to weigh my eyelids down, I had mentally rehearsed over and over again the two unexpected interviews with my cousin Aurora; and again I repented having condescended to take her handkerchief even in a spirit of gallantry. It was very cavalier-like no doubt--very romantic and all that; but in my heart I linked her and her mother with those who had outraged and wronged me, and pride dictated that I should have left them in ignorance of who I was, and then have ridden off on my lonely way. However, now the deed was done, and regret was unavailing.