The hour of retribution was, however, not so far off as Felix imagined. Cunning people may go on cleverly in their devices for some time; but although they may escape once, twice, perhaps ninety-nine times, what does that signify?—for the hundredth time they come to shame, and lose all their character. Grown bold by frequent success, Felix became more careless in his operations; and it happened that one day he met his mistress full in the passage, as he was going on one of the cook’s secret errands. “Where are you going, Felix?” said his mistress. “To the washerwoman’s, ma’am,” answered he, with his usual effrontery. “Very well,” said she. “Call at the bookseller’s in—stay, I must write down the direction. Pomfret,” said she, opening the housekeeper’s room door, “have you a bit of paper?” Pomfret came with the writing-paper, and looked very angry to see that Felix was going out without her knowledge; so, while Mrs. Churchill was writing the direction, she stood talking to him about it; whilst he, in the greatest terror imaginable, looked up in her face as she spoke; but was all the time intent on parrying on the other side the attacks of a little French dog of his mistress’, which, unluckily for him, had followed her into the passage. Manchon was extremely fond of Felix, who, by way of pleasing his mistress, had paid most assiduous court to her dog; yet now his caresses were rather troublesome. Manchon leaped up, and was not to be rebuffed. “Poor fellow—poor fellow—down! down! poor fellow!” cried Felix, and put him away. But Manchon leaped up again, and began smelling near the fatal pocket in a most alarming manner. “You will see by this direction where you are to go,” said his mistress. “Manchon, come here—and you will be so good as to bring me—down! down! Manchon, be quiet!” But Manchon knew better—he had now got his head into Felix’s pocket, and would not be quiet till he had drawn from thence, rustling out of its brown paper, half a cold turkey, which had been missing since morning. “My cold turkey, as I’m alive!” exclaimed the housekeeper, darting upon it with horror and amazement. “What is all this?” said Mrs. Churchill, in a composed voice. “I don’t know, ma’am,” answered Felix, so confused that he knew not what to say; “but—” “But what?” cried Mrs. Pomfret, indignation flashing from her eyes. “But what?” repeated his mistress, waiting for his reply with a calm air of attention, which still more disconcerted Felix; for, though with an angry person he might have some chance of escape, he knew that he could not invent any excuse in such circumstances, which could stand the examination of a person in her sober senses. He was struck dumb. “Speak,” said Mrs. Churchill, in a still lower tone; “I am ready to hear all you have to say. In my house everybody shall have justice; speak—but what?”