‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. I promised to put him in touch with some people in Rome, an idea which he warmed to. Of this man Kneebone resolved to go in pursuit; and leaving Jack in charge of the constable, he proceeded to the small inn,—which bore then, as it bears now, the name of the Six Bells,—where, summoning the hostler, his steed was instantly brought him, and, springing on its back, he rode away at full speed. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. But I wrapped it in that nun’s gear you give me. When I went I was refused admittance. If you live, well and good; if you die, well and good. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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