The fellow moved towards him reluctantly, and with suspicion. 'Who is it

lies dead there?' Sir George asked.

'Your honour knows,' the man answered cautiously.

'No, I don't.' 'Then you will be the only one in Oxford that does not,' the fellow

replied, eyeing him oddly.

'Maybe,' Soane answered with impatience. 'Take it so, and answer the

question,' 'It is Masterson, that was the porter at Pembroke.'

'Ah! And how did he die?'

'That is asking,' the man answered, looking shiftily about. 'And it is

an ill business, and I want no trouble. Oh, well'--he continued, as Sir

George put something in his hand--'thank your honour, I'll drink your

health. Yes, it is Masterson, poor man, sure enough; and two days ago

he was as well as you or I--saving your presence. He was on the gate

that evening, and there was a supper on one of the staircases: all the

bloods of the College, your honour will understand. About an hour before

midnight the Master sent him to tell the gentlemen he could not sleep

for the noise. After that it is not known just what happened, but the

party had him in and gave him wine; and whether he went then and

returned again when the company were gone is a question. Any way, he was

found in the morning, cold and dead at the foot of the stairs, and his

neck broken. It is said by some a trap was laid for him on the

staircase. And if it was,' the man continued, after a pause, his true

feeling finding sudden vent, 'it is a black shame that the law does not

punish it! But the coroner brought it in an accident.'

Sir George shrugged his shoulders. Then, moved by curiosity and a desire

to learn something about the girl, 'His daughter takes it hardly,'

he said.

The man grunted. 'Ah,' he said, 'maybe she has need to. Your honour does

not come from him?'

'From Whom? I come from no one.'

'To be sure, sir, I was forgetting. But, seeing you with her--but there,

you are a stranger.'

Soane would have liked to ask him his meaning, but felt that he had

condescended enough. He bade the man a curt good-night, therefore, and

turning away passed quickly into St. Aldate's Street. Thence it was but

a step to the Mitre, where he found his baggage and servant

awaiting him.

In those days distinctions of dress were still clear and unmistakable.

Between the peruke--often forty guineas' worth--the tie-wig, the

scratch, and the man who went content with a little powder, the

intervals were measurable. Ruffles cost five pounds a pair; and velvets

and silks, cut probably in Paris, were morning wear. Moreover, the

dress of the man who lost or won his thousand in a night at Almack's,

and was equally well known at Madame du Deffand's in Paris and at

Holland House, differed as much from the dress of the ordinary

well-to-do gentleman as that again differed from the lawyer's or the

doctor's. The Mitre, therefore, saw in Sir George a very fine gentleman

indeed, set him down to an excellent supper in its best room, and

promised a post-chaise-and-four for the following morning--all with much

bowing and scraping, and much mention of my lord to whose house he would

post. For in those days, if a fine gentleman was a very fine gentleman,

a peer was also a peer. Quite recently they had ventured to hang one;

but with apologies, a landau-and-six, and a silken halter.




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