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I gave it up and began thoughtfully, and not without difficulty, to case myself in the disguise of Punchinello. I resolved to see this thing through. The costume had evidently not been made to my measure, and in the process of induing it I paused once or twice to speculate on the eccentricities of the figure to which it had been shaped or the abstract anatomical knowledge of the tailor who had shaped it. I declare that the hump seemed the one normal thing about it. But by this time my detective-hunger–not to call it a thirst for vengeance–was asserting itself above petty vanity. I squeezed myself into the costume; and then, clapping on the false nose, stood arrayed–as queer a figure, surely, as ever was assumed by retributive Justice.

So, with a heart hardened by indignation and prepared for the severest measures, I descended to the drawing-room landing. Two doors opened upon it–that of the drawing-room itself, which faced over a terrace roofing the kitchens and across it to a garden in the rear of the house, and that of a room overlooking the street and scarcely less spacious. This had been the deceased General’s bedroom, and in indolence rather than impiety I had left it unused with all its hideous furniture–including the camp-bed which his martial habits affected. And this was the apartment I entered, curious to learn how it had been converted into a reception-room for the throng which now filled it.

I recognised only the wall-paper. The furniture had been removed, the carpet taken up, the boards waxed to a high degree of slipperiness; and across the far end stretched a buffet-table presided over by a venerable person in black, with white hair, a high clear complexion, and a deportment which hit a nice mean between the military and the episcopal.

I had scarcely time to tell myself that this must be Mr. Horrex, before he looked up and caught sight of me. His features underwent a sudden and astonishing change; and almost dropping a bottle of champagne in his flurry, he came swiftly round the end of the buffet towards me.

I knew not how to interpret his expression: surprise was in it, and eagerness, and suppressed agitation, and an appeal for secrecy, and at the same time (if I mistook not) a deep relief.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he began, in a sort of confidential whisper, very quick and low, “but I was not aware you had arrived.”

I gazed at him with stern inquiry.

“You are Mr. Richardson, are you not?” he asked. There could be no doubt of his agitation.

“I am; and I have been in this, my house, for some three-quarters of an hour.”

“They never told me,” he groaned. “And I left particular instructions –But perhaps you have already seen the mistress?”

“I have not. May I ask you to take me to her–since I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance?”

“Cert’nly, sir. Oh, at once! She is in the drawing-room putting the best face on it. Twice she has sent in to know if you have arrived, and I sent word, ‘No, not yet,’ though it cut me to the ‘eart.”

“She is anxious to see me?”

“Desprit, sir.”

“She thinks to avoid exposure, then?” said I darkly, keeping a set face.

“She ‘opes, sir: she devoutly ‘opes.” He groaned and led the way. “It may, after all, be a lesson to Mr. ‘Erbert,” he muttered as we reached the landing.

“I fancy it’s going to be a lesson to several of you.”

“The things we’ve ‘ad to keep dark, sir–the goings-on!”

“I can well believe it.”

“I was in some doubts about you, sir–begging your pardon: but in spite of the dress, sir–which gives a larky appearance, if I may say it–and doubtless is so meant–you reassure me, sir: you do indeed. I feel the worst is over. We can put ourselves in your ‘ands.”