All the bells were jangling and tolling as he reached that place. He

might have seen his old acquaintance Amelia on her way from Brompton to

Russell Square, had he been looking out. Troops of schools were on

their march to church, the shiny pavement and outsides of coaches in

the suburbs were thronged with people out upon their Sunday pleasure;

but the Colonel was much too busy to take any heed of these phenomena,

and, arriving at Knightsbridge, speedily made his way up to the room of

his old friend and comrade Captain Macmurdo, who Crawley found, to his

satisfaction, was in barracks.

Captain Macmurdo, a veteran officer and Waterloo man, greatly liked by

his regiment, in which want of money alone prevented him from attaining

the highest ranks, was enjoying the forenoon calmly in bed. He had

been at a fast supper-party, given the night before by Captain the

Honourable George Cinqbars, at his house in Brompton Square, to several

young men of the regiment, and a number of ladies of the corps de

ballet, and old Mac, who was at home with people of all ages and ranks,

and consorted with generals, dog-fanciers, opera-dancers, bruisers, and

every kind of person, in a word, was resting himself after the night's

labours, and, not being on duty, was in bed.

His room was hung round with boxing, sporting, and dancing pictures,

presented to him by comrades as they retired from the regiment, and

married and settled into quiet life. And as he was now nearly fifty

years of age, twenty-four of which he had passed in the corps, he had a

singular museum. He was one of the best shots in England, and, for a

heavy man, one of the best riders; indeed, he and Crawley had been

rivals when the latter was in the Army. To be brief, Mr. Macmurdo was

lying in bed, reading in Bell's Life an account of that very fight

between the Tutbury Pet and the Barking Butcher, which has been before

mentioned--a venerable bristly warrior, with a little close-shaved grey

head, with a silk nightcap, a red face and nose, and a great dyed

moustache.

When Rawdon told the Captain he wanted a friend, the latter knew

perfectly well on what duty of friendship he was called to act, and

indeed had conducted scores of affairs for his acquaintances with the

greatest prudence and skill. His Royal Highness the late lamented

Commander-in-Chief had had the greatest regard for Macmurdo on this

account, and he was the common refuge of gentlemen in trouble.

"What's the row about, Crawley, my boy?" said the old warrior. "No

more gambling business, hay, like that when we shot Captain Marker?"

"It's about--about my wife," Crawley answered, casting down his eyes

and turning very red.

The other gave a whistle. "I always said she'd throw you over," he

began--indeed there were bets in the regiment and at the clubs

regarding the probable fate of Colonel Crawley, so lightly was his

wife's character esteemed by his comrades and the world; but seeing the

savage look with which Rawdon answered the expression of this opinion,

Macmurdo did not think fit to enlarge upon it further.




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