Having arrived at my destination, I sought
out the Eastergate, a dirty street inhabited by poor people, mounted
three pair of stairs till I saw through a slate-pane, knocked at a door,
and was met by a woman, with an umbrageously bearded face peering out
from the side of her head-gear--that is, there was a head there in
addition to her own.
"The devil!" said the man. "How did you find me out?"
"By the trail of evil," I said, as I walked in, and shut the door
behind me.
"Did you not know I was dead?" he continued, by way of desperate
raillery.
"Yes, the devil was once reported to be dead and buried in a certain
long town, but it was only a feint, whereby to catch the unwary Whigs.
Let us have seats. I want a little quiet conversation with you both."
We seemed rather a comfortable party round the fire.
"Ruggieri," said I, "do you know that scar?"
"I have certainly seen it before," replied he, with the utmost
composure.
"Well, you know the attack you made upon me at Brussels, for the
convenient purpose of getting buried along with your victim a certain
little piece of dirty paper I have in my pocket, whereby you became
bound to pay to me a thousand florins which I lent you, on the faith of
one I took for a gentleman."
"The scar I deny," he replied, unblushingly; "and as for the bit of
paper, if you can find any one in these parts who can prove that the
signature thereto was written by this hand belonging to this person now
sitting before you, you will accomplish something more wonderful than
finding me out here.
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