mised to him.

In the course of the month which had elapsed since the interview that
has been described in the former chapter, Mr. Billings had several times
had occasion to wait on his father; but though he had, according to her
wishes, frequently alluded to the existence of his mother, the Count had
never at any time expressed the slightest wish to renew his acquaintance
with that lady; who, if she had seen him, had only seen him by stealth.

The fact is, that after Billings had related to her the particulars of
his first meeting with his Excellency; which ended, like many of the
latter visits, in nothing at all; Mrs. Hayes had found some pressing
business, which continually took her to Whitehall, and had been prowling
from day to day about Monsieur de Galgenstein's lodgings. Four or five
times in the week, as his Excellency stepped into his coach, he might
have remarked, had he chosen, a woman in a black hood, who was looking
most eagerly into his eyes: but those eyes had long since left off the
practice of observing; and Madam Catherine's visits had so far gone for
nothing.

On this night, however, inspired by gaiety and drink, the Count had been
amazingly stricken by the gait and ogling of the lady in the mask. The
Reverend O'Flaherty, who was with him, and had observed the figure in
the black cloak, recognised, or thought he recognised, her. "It is the
woman who dogs your Excellency every day," said he. "She is with that
tailor lad who loves to see people hanged--your Excellency's son, I
mean." And he was just about to warn the Count of a conspiracy evidently
made against him, and that the son had brought, most likely, the mother
to play her arts upon him--he was just about, I say, to show to the
Count the folly and danger of renewing an old liaison with a woman such
as he had described Mrs. Cat to be, when his Excellency, starting
up, and interrupting his ghostly adviser at the very beginning of his
sentence, said, "Egad, l'Abbe, you are right--it IS my son, and a mighty
smart-looking creature with him. Hey! Mr. What's-your-name--Tom, you
rogue, don't you know your own father?" And so saying, and cocking his
beaver on one side, Monsieur de Galgenstein strutted jauntily after Mr.
Billings and the lady.

It was the first time that the Count had formally recognised his son.

"Tom, you rogue," stopped at this, and the Count came up. He had a white
velvet suit, covered over with stars and orders, a neat modest wig