ue, let us raise our glasses to
that happy unknown whoever he be, let us drink health to him, joy to
him, success and long life to him for the sake of Our Admirable Betty.
Gentlemen 'The Unknown!'"

CHAPTER XLIV

SOME ACCOUNT OF A HIGHWAYMAN

Mr. Dalroyd was a man of habit and of late it had become his custom to
take particular heed as to the lock and bolts of his chamber door of
nights and to sleep with his pistol beneath his pillow.

He had formed another habit also, a strange, uncanny habit of pausing
suddenly with head aslant like one hearkening for soft or distant
sounds; though to be sure his eyes were as sleepy and himself as
languid as usual.

But the stair leading to Mr. Dalroyd's bedchamber was narrow and
extremely precipitous and, descending in the gloom one evening, he had
tripped over some obstacle and only by his swordsman's quickness and
bodily agility saved himself from plunging headlong to the bottom. He
had wakened in the middle of the night for no seeming reason and,
sitting up in that attitude of patient listening, had chanced to glance
at the door lit by a shaft of moonlight and had watched the latch
quiver, lift silently and as silently sink back in place.

He had moreover become cautious as to how he took up his pistols,
having found them more than once mysteriously at full cock. So Mr.
Dalroyd continued to lock and double-lock his door at night and, in the
morning, seated before his mirror, to watch Joseph the obsequious
therein: as he was doing now.

"Sir," said Joseph, eyes lowered yet perfectly aware of his master's
watchful scrutiny, "everything is packed save your brushes and the
gillyflower water."

"Why then, my snail, you may pack them also."

"I will, sir."

"It is now half after ten, Joseph--we ride at eleven."

"To London, sir?"

"Order the horses to the door at that hour, Object."

"Yes, sir. Pray, sir," said he humbly, head bowed and big hands
twitching nervously, "regarding your promise of permitting me
to--to--quit your service--pray when is it to be?"

"I don't know, Joseph, I can't say."

"Sir--sir--d'ye mean----"

"I mean that I don't feel I can endure to part with you, Joseph."

"You mean--you--won't?"

"You interest me, Joseph. Yes, you amuse me vastly, there is about you
such infinite repression, Joseph, such latent ferocity. Yours is a
nature of great and unexpected possibilities. Ferocity, duly in check,
allures me, Joseph; so I shall co