Phillip Redgill, Esq., towered into a fearful rage, strutted about, spoke of his “honour,” credit and family, and left the hotel that same day, telling the proprietor in an indifferent, but tragic manner, to send in his bill to the “St. Charles Hotel,” where he intended for the future to reside, intimating in a mildly ferocious style that did he consider the proprietor to be a “gentleman” he should feel no hesitation or compunction of conscience in treating him to an ordeal of fire, ball, and brimstone over in Battersea, or in the secluded Wormwood Scrubbs. By such method of procedure Mr. Redgill and his “lady” lived for several months during Charley Warbeck’s incarceration, and all he did when bills were presented was to find fault, fall into a violent passion, and go elsewhere, or anywhere where his name or appearance would admit or credit him. Everything has an end, and so had Redgill’s braggadocio and credit. For the sake of past memories few would trouble his own personal effects for debt; but at last he had fallen so low in the social scale that he deserted the hotels, and sought accommodations for himself and wife in private lodgings. He “hated the noise and bustle of hotels and public thoroughfares,” he said. “Retirement and quiet suited him best.” So that although he frequented card rooms and the like, little altered from his former style of dress and manner, his “whereabouts” were a mystery to all. Nor could the most urgent importunities make him disclose his lodgings. How he maintained himself no one was bold enough to inquire. He was frequently seen in the company of rich young men desirous of seeing and being initiated into the mysteries of the town. Many said, or rather whispered, that Phillip was nothing better than a card “sharper” and general blackleg. These, of course, were only very distant rumours. None were bold enough to publicly retail such reports for fear of Phillip’s ungovernable anger, and his frequent allusions to the number of men he had “stabbed” or shot in his brief career upon the town. Certain it is, Mr. Redgill was more frequently seen handling cards than his prayer book, and a thousand times to one oftener seen in the bear gardens than in church, and, as officers will occasionally talk, Redgill was styled in general terms as “a man about town” “who knew a thing or two,” and “could generally in the season average £20 per night” at cards. Whatever his “averages” might be, it is in point blank evidence that he gave his wife but little—nay, very little. What with general neglect, harsh words, frequent blows, and general ruffianism, poor Fanny led but an unamiable life, and frequently begged for death as a release from her sufferings. Sir Andrew’s visits to the City were few and far between. Whenever he “ran up” by coach, he passed through the streets in a shadowy manner, without the slightest ambition, apparently, to be recognized by any of his former friends.