an inner breast-pocket of his buttoned travelling
coat; and whatever he dreamed of, in the
lethargy that got possession of him, something
importunate in these papers called him out of
that dream, though he could not wake from it.
He was belated on the steppes of Russia (some
shadowy person gave that name to the place)
with Marguerite; and yet the sensation of a
hand at his breast, softly feeling the outline of
the pocket-book as he lay asleep before the fire,
was present to him. He was shipwrecked in an
open boat at sea, and having lost his clothes, had
no other covering than an old sail; and yet a
creeping hand, tracing outside all the other
pockets of the dress he actually wore, for papers,
and finding none answer its touch, warned him to
rouse himself. He was in the ancient vault at
Cripple Corner, to which was transferred the very
bed substantial and present in that very room at
Basle; and Wilding (not dead, as he had
supposed, and yet he did not wonder much) shook
him, and whispered, "Look at that man! Don't
you see he has risen, and is turning the pillow?
Why should he turn the pillow, if not to seek
those papers that are in your breast? Awake!"
And yet he slept, and wandered off into other
dreams.

Watchful and still, with his elbow on the
table and his head upon that hand, his
companion at length said: "Vendale! We are
called. Past Four!" Then, opening his eyes,
he saw, turned sideways on him, the filmy face
of Obenreizer.

"You have been in a heavy sleep," he said.
"The fatigue of constant travelling and the
cold!"

"I am broad awake now," cried Vendale,
springing up, but with an unsteady footing.
"Haven't you slept at all?"

"I may have dozed, but I seem to have been
patiently looking at the fire. Whether or no,
we must wash, and breakfast, and turn out.
Past four, Vendale; past four!"

It was said in a tone to rouse him, for already
he was half asleep again. In his preparation
for the day, too, and at his breakfast, he was
often virtually asleep while in mechanical action.
It was not until the cold dark day was closing
in, that he had any distincter impressions of the
ride than jingling bells, bitter weather, slipping
horses, frowning hill-sides, bleak woods, and
a stoppage at some wayside house of
entertainment, where they had passed through a
cowhouse to reach the travellers' room above.
He had been conscious of little more, except of
Obenreizer sitting thoughtful at his side all day,
and eyeing him much.

But when he shook off his stupor, Obenreizer
was not at his side. The carriage was stopping
to bait at another wayside house; and a line of
long narrow carts, laden with casks of wine,
and drawn by horses with a quantity of blue
collar and head-gear, were baiting too. These
came from the direction in which the travellers
were going, and Obenreizer (not thoughtful
now, but cheerful and alert) was talking with
the foremost driver. As Vendale stretched his
limbs, circulated his blood, and cleared off the
lees of his lethargy, with a sharp run to and fro
in the bracing air, the line of carts moved
on: the drivers all saluting Obenreizer as they
passed him.

"Who are those?" asked Vendale.

"They are our carriers—Defresnier and
Company's," replied Obenreizer. "Those are our
casks of wine." He was singing to himself,
and lighting a cigar.

"I have been drearily dull company
today," said Vendale. "I don't know what has
been the matter with me."

"You had no sleep last night; and a kind of
brain-congestion frequently comes, at first, of
such cold," said Obenreizer. "I have seen it
often. After all, we shall have our journey for
nothing, it seems."

"How for nothing?"

"The House is at Milan. You know, we
are a Wine House at Neuchâtel, and a Silk
House at Milan? Well, Silk happening to
press of a sudden, more than Wine, Defresnier
was summoned to Milan. Rolland, the other
partner, has been taken ill since his departure,
and the doctors will allow him to see no one.
A letter awaits you at Neuchâtel to tell you
so. I have it from our chief carrier whom you
saw me talking with. He was surprised to see
me, and said he had that word for you if he
met you. What do you do? Go back?'

"Go on," said Vendale.

"On?"

"On? Yes. Across the Alps, and down to
Milan."

Obenreizer stopped in his smoking to look at
Vendale, and then smoked heavily, looked up
the road, looked down the road, looked down
at the stones in the road at his feet.

"I have a very serious matter in charge,"
said Vendale; "more of these missing forms
may be turned to as bad account, or worse; I
am urged to lose no time in helping the House
to take the thief; and nothing shall turn me
back."

"No?" cried Obenreizer, taking out his
cigar to smile, and giving his hand to his
fellow-traveller. "Then nothing shall turn me
back. Ho, driver! Despatch. Quick there!
Let us push on!"

They travelled through the night. There had
been snow, and there was a partial thaw, and
they mostly travelled at a foot-pace, and always
with many stoppages to breathe the splashed
and floundering horses. After an hour's broad
daylight, they drew rein at the inn-door at
Neuchâtel, having been some eight-and-twenty
hours in conquering some eighty English miles.

When they had hurriedly refreshed and
changed, they went together to the house of
business of Defresnier and Company. There
they found the letter which the wine-carrier
had described, enclosing the tests and
comparisons of hand-writing essential to the
discovery of the Forger. Vendale's determination to
press forward, without resting, being already
taken, the only question to delay them was
by what Pass could they cross the Alps?
Respecting the state of the two Passes of the