This letter produced in me many and manifold cogitations. What could
possibly have induced Mr. Tom Thornton, rogue as he was, to postpone thus
of his own accord, the plucking of a pigeon, which he had such good
reason to believe he had entrapped? There was evidently no longer the
same avidity to cultivate my acquaintance as before; in putting off our
appointment with so little ceremony, he did not even fix a day for
another. What had altered his original designs towards me? for if
Vincent's account was true, it was natural to suppose that he wished to
profit by any acquaintance he might form with me, and therefore such an
acquaintance his own interests would induce him to continue and confirm.

Either, then, he no longer had the same necessity for a dupe, or he no
longer imagined I should become one. Yet neither of these suppositions
was probable. It was not likely that he should grow suddenly honest, or
suddenly rich: nor had I, on the other hand, given him any reason to
suppose I was a jot more wary than any other individual he might have
imposed upon. On the contrary, I had appeared to seek his acquaintance
with an eagerness which said but little for my knowledge of the world.
The more I reflected, the more I should have been puzzled, had I not
connected his present backwardness with his acquaintance with the
stranger, whom he termed Warburton. It is true, that I had no reason to
suppose so: it was a conjecture wholly unsupported, and, indeed, against
my better sense; yet, from some unanalysed associations, I could not
divest myself of the supposition.

"I will soon see," thought I; and wrapping myself in my cloak, for the
day was bitterly cold, I bent my way to Thornton's lodgings. I could not
explain to myself the deep interest I took in whatever was connected with
(the so-called) Warburton, or whatever promised to discover more clearly
any particulars respecting him. His behaviour in the gambling house; his