ement tone with his companion, hurried on and vanished
through the street door. I entered St. John's room: he was alone, and
received me with his usual gayety.

"Pardon me, Mr. Secretary," said I; "but if not a question of state, do
inform me what you know respecting the taller one of those two gentlemen
who have just quitted you."

"It is a question of state, my dear Devereux, so my answer must be
brief,--very little."

"You know who he is?"

"Yes, a Jesuit, and a marvellously shrewd one: the Abbe Montreuil."

"He was my tutor."

"Ah, so I have heard."

"And your acquaintance with him is positively and _bona fide_ of a state
nature?"

"Positively and _bona fide_."

"I could tell you something of him; he is certainly in the service
of the Court at St. Germains, and a terrible plotter on this side the
Channel."

"Possibly; but I wish to receive no information respecting him."

One great virtue of business did St. John possess, and I have never
known any statesman who possessed it so eminently: it was the discreet
distinction between friends of the statesman and friends of the man.
Much and intimately as I knew St. John, I could never glean from him
a single secret of a state nature, until, indeed, at a later period, I
leagued myself to a portion of his public schemes. Accordingly I found
him, at the present moment, perfectly impregnable to my inquiries;
and it was not till I knew Montreuil's companion was that celebrated
intriguant, the Abbe Gaultier, that I ascertained the exact nature
of the priest's business with St. John, and the exact motive of the
civilities he had received from Abigail Masham.* Being at last forced,
despairingly, to give over the attempt on his discretion, I suffered St.
John to turn the conversation upon other topics, and as these were not
much to the existent humour of my mind, I soon rose to depart.

* Namely, that Count Devereux ascertained the priest's communications
and overtures from the Chevalier. The precise extent of Bolingbroke's
secret negotiations with the exiled Prince is still one of the darkest
portions of the history of that time. That negotiations _were_ carried
on, both by Harley and by St. John, very largely, and very closely, I
need not say that there is no doubt.

"Stay, Count," said St. John; "shall you ride to-day?"

"If you will bear me company."

"_Volontiers_,--to say the truth, I was about to ask you to canter your
bay horse with me first to Spri