There was something irritating in the challenge, although it was given only by a look, and, in spite of my anxiety to get away, I determined to wait a little, and possibly do the very thing he defied me to attempt. I therefore only passed on slowly, far enough to hear the door opened, then I turned, never expecting to see him admitted. The cunning rascal was watching me all the time, and possibly guessing my thoughts, for when I looked round he was being admitted by the smart servant maid, and in the act of disappearing favoured me with another exulting grin and wink, which said as plainly as words could have done, “Sold for once, Jamie.” I did not believe it, and determined to let all other business stand that I might see the end of this adventure. With this object I loitered about, never within sight of the windows of the house, yet always having my eyes on the front door till Peter reappeared. There was no name on the door of the house he had entered, but by questioning a servant who passed I learned that the occupant or owner was an independent gentleman named Matthew Bannister, who had taken some degrees at college, and was a kind of _savant_ in his way, having published some works on chemistry. The gentleman was well known to me by reputation, and the moment his name was mentioned I decided that Peter Hart’s visit to the house could have no connection with him. Mr Bannister had a young and beautiful wife, who had bestowed not only herself and her love upon the somewhat elderly gentleman, but a fortune as well; but she came of a high family, and I as emphatically decided that Peter’s visit could have no connection with her. There then remained only the servants, and, knowing Peter’s reputation and his modes of working, I quickly decided that he was in collusion with some of them, and working out some scheme entirely unknown to their employers. Peter did not remain long in the house—possibly ten minutes at the most; and when he did appear I thought best to be out of sight. To my surprise he had no bundle or trace of one about him: nor did his person appear more bulky than when he had entered. He looked carefully around in every direction—for me, of course—and, apparently slightly relieved at seeing no one, started off in the direction he had come. He made his way by Broughton Street to Greenside, where he entered a favourite public-house. Not two minutes later the pot-boy came out with something like a bank note in his hand, and, knowing the boy well, I stopped to make inquiries for Peter. “Where are you running to now?” I carelessly asked, not wishing to be too sudden in my questions. “To get change for a £5 note,” he smartly answered, with a peculiar wink, at the same time opening the crisp note for my inspection. “We’ve lots of change, but it’s aye safer to try a big note outside.” I examined the note carefully, and found it to be perfectly genuine.