ise would be fulfilled. On
the night of Lord Lyttelton's death Mr Andrews, who expected his
lordship to pay him a visit on the following day, had retired to bed at
his house at Dartford, in Kent.

When in bed, to quote from Mr Plumer Ward's "Illustrations of Human
Life," he fell into a sound sleep, but was waked between eleven and
twelve o'clock by somebody opening his curtains. It was Lord Lyttelton,
in a nightgown and cap which Andrews recognised. He also spoke plainly
to him, saying that he was come to tell him all was over. It seems that
Lord Lyttelton was fond of horseplay; and, as he had often made Andrews
the subject of it, the latter had threatened his lordship with physical
chastisement the very next time that it should occur. On the present
occasion, thinking that the annoyance was being renewed, he threw at
Lord Lyttelton's head the first thing that he could find--his slippers.
The figure retreated towards a dressing-room, which had no ingress or
egress except through the bed-chamber; and Andrews, very angry, leaped
out of bed in order to follow it into the dressing-room. It was not
there, however.

Surprised and amazed, he returned at once to the bedroom, which he
strictly searched. _The door was locked on the inside_, yet no Lord
Lyttelton was to be found. In his perplexity, Mr Andrews rang for his
servant, and asked if Lord Lyttelton had not arrived. The man answered:
"No, sir." "You may depend upon it," said Mr Andrews, thoroughly
mystified and out of humour, "that he is somewhere in the house. He was
here just now, and he is playing some trick or other. However, you can
tell him that he won't get a bed here; he can sleep in the stable or at
the inn if he likes."

After a further vain search of the bed-chamber and the dressing-room, Mr
Andrews returned to bed and to sleep, having no doubt whatever that his
too jocular friend was in hiding somewhere near. On the afternoon of the
following day news came to him that Lord Lyttelton had died the previous
night at the very time that he (Mr Andrews) was searching for his
midnight visitant, and abusing him roundly for what he considered his
ill-timed practical joke. On hearing the news, we are told, Mr Andrews
swooned away, and such was its effect on him that, to use his own words,
"he was not himself or a man again for three years."

CHAPTER VI

A MESSALINA OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

There have been bad women in all ages, from Messalina, who wade