that met my gaze--seated, with due regard to dignity, in an
arm-chair, a pair of spectacles on his nose, a glass of
brandy-and-water by his side, and a newspaper, redolent of cheese,
before him--was the constable of the night--the nun of the
masquerade--the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn! The wretch's eyes
gleamed with a savage but subdued joy at the recognition; a low,
chuckling laugh escaped him; while his dull countenance, made doubly
revolting by the dim light of the watch-house, fell, fixed and
scowling, upon me, as he pointed towards the spot where I
stood.--"Dobson," he exclaimed; and, at the word, forth stepped the
owner of this melodious appellative, with "this here man."--Luckily,
before he could finish his charge, a five-shilling-piece, which I
thrust into his unsuspecting palm, created a diversion among the
watchmen in my behalf; under favour of which, while my arch enemy
was adjusting his books, I contrived to escape from his detested
presence.

It happened that about a month subsequent to this last rencontre,
circumstances led me to Bologne, whither I arrived, late in the
evening, by the steamboat. On being directed to the best English
hotel in that truly social Anglo-Gallic little town, I chanced to
find in the coffee-room an old crony, whom I had known years since
at Cambridge, and who had just arrived from Switzerland, on a
speculation connected with some vineyards.

I had a thousand questions to ask my friend, a thousand memories to
disinter from their graves in my heart, past follies to re-enact,
past scenes to re-people. We began with our school-days, pursued the
subject to Cambridge, carried it back again to Reading, and thence
traced it through all its windings, now in sunshine, now in gloom,