On the stroke of the hour when Ripton Thompson was accustomed to consult his gold watch for practical purposes, and sniff freedom and the forthcoming dinner, a burglarious foot entered the clerk’s office where he sat, and a man of a scowling countenance, who looked a villain, and whom he was afraid he knew, slid a letter into his hands, nodding that it would be prudent for him to read, and be silent. Ripton obeyed in alarm. Apparently the contents of the letter relieved his conscience; for he reached down his hat, and told Mr. Beazley to inform his father that he had business of pressing importance in the West, and should meet him at the station. Mr. Beazley zealously waited upon the paternal Thompson without delay, and together making their observations from the window, they beheld a cab of many boxes, into which Ripton darted and was followed by one in groom’s dress. It was Saturday, the day when Ripton gave up his law-readings, magnanimously to bestow himself upon his family, and Mr. Thompson liked to have his son’s arm as he walked down to the station; but that third glass of Port which always stood for his second, and the groom’s suggestion of aristocratic acquaintances, prevented Mr. Thompson from interfering: so Ripton was permitted to depart. In the cab Ripton made a study of the letter he held. It had the preciseness of an imperial mandate. “Dear Ripton,—You are to get lodgings for a lady immediately. Not a word to a soul. Then come along with Tom. R.D.F.” “Lodgings for a lady!” Ripton meditated aloud: “What sort of lodgings? Where am I to get lodgings? Who’s the lady?—I say!” he addressed the mysterious messenger. “So you’re Tom Bakewell, are you, Tom?” Tom grinned his identity. “Do you remember the rick, Tom? Ha! ha! We got out of that neatly. We might all have been transported, though. I could have convicted you, Tom, safe! It’s no use coming across a practised lawyer. Now tell me.” Ripton having flourished his powers, commenced his examination: “Who’s this lady?” “Better wait till you see Mr. Richard, sir,” Tom resumed his scowl to reply. “Ah!” Ripton acquiesced. “Is she young, Tom?” Tom said she was not old. “Handsome, Tom?” “Some might think one thing, some another,” Tom said. “And where does she come from now?” asked Ripton, with the friendly cheerfulness of a baffled counsellor. “Comes from the country, sir.” “A friend of the family, I suppose? a relation?” Ripton left this insinuating query to be answered by a look. Tom’s face was a dead blank. “Ah!” Ripton took a breath, and eyed the mask opposite him. “Why, you’re quite a scholar, Tom! Mr. Richard is well. All right at home?” “Come to town this mornin’ with his uncle,” said Tom. “All well, thank ye, sir.”