rit of good in things evil," than
in the relief afforded me on the present occasion. I wrote, after that,
with my door locked. This I knew was, from the confined air, prejudicial
to my health; but what was dyspepsy or consumption to that little
hard-faced old gentleman--to those breeches--to that broad-brimmed
hat--to those buckles--to that gold-headed cane?

"Remember, Peter," said I, the second morning after the foregoing, "I
have gone out."

"Where have you gone?" inquired Peter, with grave simplicity. "They
always ask me where you have gone, sir. The little man with the hat was
here last night, and wanted to go after you."

"Forbid it Heaven! I have gone to Albany, Peter, on business."

I can hear in my room pretty much what passes in the adjoining one,
where visitors first enter from the street. I had scarcely got
comfortably seated, in a rare mood for poetry, giving the last touches
to a poem, which, whatever might be the merits of Byron and Moore, I did
not think altogether indifferent, when I heard the little old
gentleman's voice inquiring for me.

"I _must_ see him; I have important business," it said.

"He has gone out," replied Peter, in an undertone, in which I could
detect the consciousness that he was uttering a bouncer.

"But I _must_ see him," said the voice.

"The scoundrel!" muttered I.

"He is not in town, sir," said Peter.

"I will not detain him a single minute. It is of the greatest
importance. He would be very sorry, _very_, should he miss me."

I held my breath--there was a pause--I gave myself up for lost--when
Peter replied firmly,

"He is in Albany, sir. Went off at five o'clock this morning."

"Be back soon?"

"Don't know."

"Where does he stay?"

"Don't know."

"I'll call tomorrow."

I heard his retreating footsteps, and inwardly resolved to give Peter a
half-dollar, although he deserved to be horsewhipped for his readiness
at deception. I laughed aloud triumphantly, and slapped my hand down
upon my knee with the feelings of a fugitive debtor, who, hotly pursued
by a sheriff's officer, escapes over the line into another county, and
snaps his fingers at Monsieur Bailiff. I was aroused from my merry mood
of reverie by a touch on my shoulder. I turned suddenly. It was the
hard-faced little old gentleman, peeping in from the street. His
broad-brimmed hat and two-thirds of his face were just lifted above the
window-sill. He was evidently standing on tiptoe; and the window