The clock struck ten as he entered a hackney-coach and drove to another part of London. "What, so late!" thought he; "I must be at Dover in twelve hours: the vessel sails then. Humph! some danger yet! What a pity that I could not trust that fool! He! he! he!--what will he think tomorrow, when he wakes and finds that only one is destined to swing!" The hackney-coach stopped, according to his direction, at an inn in the city. Here Crauford asked if a note had been left for Dr. Stapylton. One (written by himself) was given to him. "Merciful Heaven!" cried the false doctor, as he read it, "my daughter is on a bed of death!" The landlord's look wore anxiety; the doctor seemed for a moment paralyzed by silent woe. He recovered, shook his head piteously, and ordered a post-chaise and four on to Canterbury without delay. "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good!" thought the landlord, as he issued the order into the yard. The chaise was soon out; the doctor entered; off went the post-boys; and Richard Crauford, feeling his diamond, turned his thoughts to safety and to France. A little, unknown man, who had been sitting at the bar for the last two hours sipping brandy and water, and who from his extreme taciturnity and quiet had been scarcely observed, now rose. "Landlord," said he, "do you know who that gentleman is?" "Why," quoth Boniface, "the letter to him was directed, 'For the Rev. Dr. Stapylton; will be called for.'" "Ah," said the little man, yawning, "I shall have a long night's work of it. Have you another chaise and four in the yard?" "To be sure, sir, to be sure!" cried the landlord in astonishment. "Out with it, then! Another glass of brandy and water,--a little stronger, no sugar!" The landlord stared; the barmaid stared; even the head-waiter, a very stately person, stared too. "Hark ye," said the little man, sipping his brandy and water, "I am a deuced good-natured fellow, so I'll make you a great man to-night; for nothing makes a man so great as being let into a great secret. Did you ever hear of the rich Mr. Crauford?" "Certainly: who has not?" "Did you ever see him?" "No! I can't say I ever did." "You lie, landlord: you saw him to-night." "Sir!" cried the landlord, bristling up. The little man pulled out a brace of pistols, and very quietly began priming them out of a small powder-flask. The landlord started back; the head-waiter cried "Rape!" and the barmaid "Murder!" "Who the devil are you, sir?" cried the landlord. "Mr. Tickletrout! the celebrated officer,--thief-taker, as they call it. Have a care, ma'am, the pistols are loaded. I see the chaise is out; there's the reckoning, landlord." "O Lord! I'm sure I don't want any reckoning: too great an honour for my poor house to be favoured with your company; but [following the little man to the door] whom did you please to say you were going to catch?" "Mr. Crauford, alias Dr. Stapylton."