As soon as I dared to breathe, I issued from my
hiding-place, and made my way straight on
board a boat for Dover. I have no clear
knowledge who it was that was in search of
me; but it was evident that somebody
"wanted me," and that was quite enough,—
English police in league with French police, I
make no doubt. Me miserum!

"Scared-looking," too! Ah, no doubt but I
did look so, for I felt it immensely.

I had left my house at Kensington in
charge of the charwoman, who was to live
there, as I could not prudently give it up, till
I was ready to depart from England for good,
or at least till the loss of the Koh-i-noor had
blown over.

It was evening when I reached Kensington.
I had written to the charwoman from Dover,
to say I was coming. Directly she opened
the door, "Oh, sir!" cried she, flinging both
hands up and down, "I'm so glad you 're
come, for there's a fellow here—hark!—that's
him!—I couldn't keep him out of the house
he has frightened me almost out of my
wits!" As I stood in the passage I heard a
voice in the back cellar, singing as loud as he
could bawl,—

"Oi drink zuckzess to the Barley-mowe—
Zuckzess o' the Barley-mowe!"

"Why, that's Bob Styles!"

"Yes, sir," said the charwoman; "he said
how his name was Mr. Styles—and he'd
make you know it, when you comed home."

I ran down to the cellar. I stopped in. the
passage. My blood was boiling. Was I
never to be released from the persecutions of
this brute beast? I rushed into the back
cellar. There he sat, with a bottle of old
port in his hand, right in the entrance of my
additional cellar, where the opening to the
burrow had been hidden by the bins and
bottle-racks. Instead of moving when he
saw me, he only grinned, and pointing significantly
to the recess behind him, again fell to
singing,—

"Oi drink zuckzess to the Barley-mowe,
Zuckzess to the Barley-mowe!
The pint, the bottle, the big quart, the—(hic!)
Zuckzess o' the Barley-mowe !"

"Ha! ha! Mizter Sparks—glad you be
comed hoam. I wants zome more money, yer
know."

I darted at him. "Villain!" exclaimed I;
"you shall have more than you want—much
more"—and I knocked him flat upon the
ground! He scrambled up; but I went in at
him, right and left, and down he went, wallowing
among the bottles that were torn out
by his fall. Up he got, and came at me. My
blood was in a perfect fever, and I am a pretty
good sparrer. We had a regular set-to, almost
in the dark, all slipping about in long streams
of port-wine, and the charwoman screaming
on the stairs. But though I hit the ruffian
about the face in first-rate style, he was so
tough that it didn't do him much damage;
and when he did manage to make one of his
swingeing blows reach me, it knocked half the
breath out of my body; and I think I should
have been banged to a biffin, if the charwoman
had not valiantly rushed in to my assistance
with a mop-handle, which she rattled to such
good purpose about Bob's skull, that, thick as
it was, he was fain to make good his retreat
up-stairs; and I finally thrust him floundering
into the street, and bolted the door. Oh,
what a scene! Is life worth having at this
price?

I kept my bed all next day. I was in a sad
state, both of body and mind. In the after-noon
I sent the charwoman out for some ice
and lemons, as I thought a little weak punch
would do me good. I needed something to
keep up my spirits; for the consequences
which might come of all this, stared me in the
face, and left me not a moment's peace.

While she was gone, I heard the street-door
open, and then there was a heavy foot upon
the stairs. It came towards my bed-room, and
the .next minute, who should stand by my bed-side,
pulling aside the curtains, but Bob Styles, .
with his head tied up? He had also lost a
front tooth in the fray. That was the mop-handle.
His cheek and both hands had likewise
been cut by the broken bottles of my fine
old crusted port. We looked at each other
for some time.

"I tell'e what, Sparks," said he, "with
deadly composure,—" you 've been and stole
zummut. Yer have—I knows it. Now, iv
you don't give me my halves, I 'll peach—and
zo there's all about it."

I was dumbfoundered. What to say or do,
I knew not. Halves!—give him halves!

"Robert," said I, "you know I have been
very kind to you."

He pointed to his head.

"Yes, that was a moment of passion; and
you see that I also have suffered; but let us
be reasonable with each other."

"Hoo much do yer call reasonable?"
said he.

"I didn't mean that, Robert," said I.

"But I do," said he; "I shan't call it reasonable
to take a varden less nor six 'underd
poun'."

"Six hundred!" But I cannot proceed
with the details of this torturing scene. I
represented to him—I remonstrated; he was
inexorable. I attempted to jump out of bed,
but he seized me by one arm, and swore he
would call the police, and give me in charge,
and—and—have my additional port- wine
cellar opened—and explored! So, I had no
alternative, and gave him a cheque for all the
money I had at my banker's, with a promissory
note for a hundred and twenty pounds
more.

I was now obliged to raise money by selling
a little farm I had in Somersetshire—the last
of all the property I possessed. I let my