After securing a bed at the hotel, and ordering a frugal curate's

dinner (bit of fish, two chops, mashed potatoes, semolina
pudding, half-pint of sherry), I sallied out to look at the town.

Not knowing the name of it, and not daring to excite surprise by
asking, I found the place full of vague yet mysterious interest.

Here I was, somewhere in central England, just as ignorant of
localities as if I had been suddenly deposited in Central Africa.

My lively fancy revelled in the new sensation. I invented a name
for the town, a code of laws for the inhabitants, productions,

antiquities, chalybeate springs, population, statistics of crime,
and so on, while I walked about the streets, looked in at the

shop-windows, and attentively examined the Market-place and
Town-hall. Experienced travelers, who have exhausted all

novelties, would do well to follow my example; they may be
certain, for one day at least, of getting some fresh ideas, and

feeling a new sensation.
On returning to dinner in the coffee-room, I found all the London

papers on the table.
The _Morning Post_ happened to lie uppermost, so I took it away

to my own seat to occupy the time, while my unpretending bit of
fish was frying. Glancing lazily at the advertisement" target="_blank" title="n.(做)广告；宣传">advertisements on the

first page, to begin with, I was astonished by the appearance of
the following lines, at the top of a column:

"If F-- --K S--FTL--Y will communicate with his distressed and
alarmed relatives, Mr. and Mrs. B--TT--RB--RY, he will hear of

something to his advantage, and may be assured that all will be
once more forgiven. A--B--LLA entreats him to write."

What, in the name of all that is most mysterious, does this mean!
was my first thought after reading the advertisement" target="_blank" title="n.(做)广告；宣传">advertisement. Can Lady

Malkinshaw have taken a fresh lease of that impregnable vital
tenement, at the door of which Death has been knocking vainly for

so many years past? (Nothing more likely.) Was my felonious
connection with Doctor Dulcifer suspected? (It seemed

improbable.) One thing, however, was certain: I was missed, and
the Batterburys were naturally anxious about me--anxious enough

to advertise in the public papers.
I debated with myself whether I should answer their pathetic

appeal or not. I had all my money about me (having never let it
out of my own possession during my stay in the red-brick house),

and there was plenty of it for the present; so I thought it best
to leave the alarm and distress of my anxious relatives

unrelieved for a little while longer, and to return quietly to
the perusal of the _ Morning Post._

Five minutes of desultory reading brought me unexpectedly to an
explanation of the advertisement" target="_blank" title="n.(做)广告；宣传">advertisement, in the shape of the following

paragraph:
"ALARMING ILLNESS OF LADY MALKINSHAW.--We regret to announce that

this venerable lady was seized with an alarming illness on
Saturday last, at her mansion in town. The attack took the

character of a fit--of what precise nature we have not been able
to learn. Her ladyship's medicalattendant and near relative,

Doctor Softly, was immediately called in, and predicted the most
fatal results. Fresh medical attendance was secured, and her

ladyship's nearest surviving relatives, Mrs. Softly, and Mr. and
Mrs. Batterbury, of Duskydale Park, were summoned. At the time of

their arrival her ladyship's condition was comatose, her
breathing being highly stertorous. If we are rightly informed,

Doctor Softly and the other medical gentlemen present gave it as
their opinion that if the pulse of the venerablesufferer did not

rally in the course of a quarter of au hour at most, very
lamentable results might be anticipated. For fourteen minutes, as

our reporter was informed, no change took place; but, strange to
relate, immediately afterward her ladyship's pulse rallied

suddenly in the most extraordinary manner. She was observed to
open her eyes very wide, and was heard, to the surprise and

delight of all surrounding the couch, to ask why her ladyship's
usual lunch of chicken-broth with a glass of Amontillado sherry

was not placed on the table as usual. These refreshments having
been produced, under the sanction of the medical gentlemen, the

aged patient partook of them with an appearance of the utmost
relish. Since this happy alteration for the better, her

ladyship's health has, we rejoice to say, rapidly improved; and
the answer now given to all friendly and fashionable inquirers

is, in the venerable lady's own humorous phraseology, 'Much
better than could be expected.' "

Well done, my excellent grandmother! my firm, my unwearied, my
undying friend! Never can I say that my case is desperate while

you can swallow your chicken-broth and sip your Amontillado
sherry. The moment I want money, I will write to Mr. Batterbury,

and cut another little golden slice out of that possible
three-thousand-pound-cake, for which he has already suffered and

sacrificed so much. In the meantime, O venerable protectress of
the wandering Rogue! let me gratefully drink your health in the

nastiest and smallest half-pint of sherry this palate ever
tasted, or these eyes ever beheld!

I went to bed that night in great spirits. My luck seemed to be
returning to me; and I began to feel more than hopeful of really

discovering my beloved Alicia at Crickgelly, under the alias of
Miss Giles.

The next morning the Rev. John Jones descended to breakfast so
rosy, bland, and smiling, that the chambermaids simpered as he

tripped by them in the passage, and the landlady bowed graciously
as he passed her parlor door. The coach drove up, and the

reverend gentleman (after waiting characteristically for the
woman's ladder) mounted to his place on the roof, behind the

coachman. One man sat there who had got up before him--and who
should that man be, but the chief of the Bow Street runners, who

had rashly tried to take Doctor Dulcifer into custody!
There could not be the least doubt of his identity; I should have

known his face again among a hundred. He looked at me as I took
my place by his side, with one sharp searching glance--then

turned his head away toward the road. Knowing that he had never
set eyes on my face (thanks to the convenient peephole at the

red-brick house), I thought my meeting with him was likely to be
rather advantageous than otherwise. I had now an opportunity of

watching the proceedings of one of our pursuers, at any rate--and
surely this was something gained.

"Fine morning, sir," I said politely.
"Yes," he replied in the gruffest of monosyllables.

I was not offended: I could make allowance for the feelings of a
man who had been locked up by his own prisoner.

"Very fine morning, indeed," I repeated, soothingly and
cheerfully.

The runner only grunted this time. Well, well! we all have our
little infirmities. I don't think the worse of the man now, for

having been rude to me, that morning, on the top of the
Shrewsbury coach.

The next passenger who got up and placed himself by my side was a
florid, excitable, confused-looking gentleman, excessively

talkative and familiar. He was followed by a sulky agricultural
youth in top-boots--and then, the complement of passengers on our

seat behind the coachman was complete.
"Heard the news, sir?" said the florid man, turning to me.

"Not that I am aware of," I answered.
"It's the most tremendous thing that has happened these fifty

years," said the florid man. "A gang of coiners, sir, discovered
at Barkingham--in a house they used to call the Grange. All the

dreadful lot of bad silver that's been about, they're at the
bottom of. And the head of the gang not taken! --escaped, sir,

like a ghost on the stage, through a trap-door, after actually
locking the runners into his workshop. The blacksmiths from