As I attempted to devise the most effective way to make known my decision, a man I had never seen before came and leaned in between Melbury and myself. He was of middle years, and even in the light of the coffeehouse I observed that the stubble of his beard grew in gray. He was a thin man with sunken eyes and sharp cheeks and as many teeth missing as present. He wore an old suit, clean but threadbare, and he carried himself with a strangely artificial dignity.

“Ah, Mr. Melbury,” he said, as he thrust his way between us. “How good to see you, sir. I had hoped to find you here, and here you are.”

Melbury’s face darkened. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to the cardplayers. He then grabbed this man by the coat sleeve and pulled him across the room.

I knew not the best way to respond, but I certainly did not want to sit like a mute blockhead with the whist players, so I rose to follow Melbury. He now sat at a table with his new companion, and as I approached, I heard him speak in hushed tones.

“How dare you come to me here?” he said. “You may be certain that I shall instruct Mr. Rosethorn to deny you entrance in future.” He turned to me. “Ah, Evans. I may ask you to do for me now what you did in Covent Garden the other day.”

Certainly my presumption had not done me harm.

“That is not very good-natured of you, sir,” the fellow said to Melbury. “You have already denied me entrance to your home, and a man must do his business where he can; indeed he must. And you and I have business, Mr. Melbury. You cannot deny it.”

“What business we might have is not for a public place such as this,” he said. “Nor can it interfere with me when I am meeting with gentlemen.”

“I should like to do our business privately, indeed I would, but you have not made it possible to do so. And as to your meeting, it appeared to me to involve your casting to the wind that which might be better applied elsewhere.”

“How I spend my time is not your concern,” he hissed.

“No, indeed. Your time is nothing to me, and you may use it as you like. It is your money: That is my concern. It is very unkind of you, sir, to spend it so recklessly when there are those who await an already tardy repayment.”

“I must ask you to leave,” Melbury said.

The fellow shook his head. “That is not so good-natured of you, sir. Indeed, it is not. You know I might be far more insistent than I have been, but I have been both kind and patient in light of your status. But I may not be kind and patient in a permanent way, if you catch my meaning.” Here he paused and looked over at me. “Titus Miller at your service, sir. May I inquire your name?”

“Have you no manners?” Melbury nearly shouted.

“I believe I have quite good manners, Mr. Melbury, for I was taught them by my grandmother. I am polite and deferential, and I pay what I owe. I see no harm in wishing to know a gentleman’s name, and unless there be some reason why I cannot know, I shall think you very ill-natured for not telling me.”

I could see that Melbury would not yield his ground and speak my name, and I did not wish that it should become so contested an issue, so I resolved to end the matter myself. “I am Matthew Evans,” I said bluntly.

“Well, Mr. Evans, do you count yourself a friend to Mr. Melbury?”

“I have not known him long, but I believe I may aspire to that station.”

“If you are a friend to him, you might wish to assist him with his embarrassments. Indeed you might.”

I could see why Melbury had such little patience with this fellow. “I believe Mr. Melbury’s affairs are his to speak of, and if he wishes my assistance in any matter, he may speak to me without your permission.”

“I fail to see why a man should not be good-natured if he can be,” Miller said, “and you are choosing to be ill-natured, which is a thing I do not love. I shall not speak to you of the precise nature of Mr. Melbury’s embarrassments, as you do not seem to want to hear them. I only say that if you are his friend, you will offer him some assistance. As I best recollect, his other friends have done so in the past, but they are perhaps not available to do so now.”

“Miller, I shall have you removed if you do not leave of your own accord.”

He rose. “I am displeased it has come to that, but I suppose there is no helping it. I shall go then, sir, but I think you may find that our business together has taken a turn in an altogether new direction. I do not love to be ill-natured, but a man must do his business as best he can.”

The next night I had one of my appointed meetings with Elias. Before I could even begin to speak, he met me with a broad grin. “I see that you may wear all the disguises you like, but you cannot contain your nature.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, as I took a seat.

He slid a Tory newspaper toward me. In it was the story of the great hero Matthew Evans, who had recently saved Mr. Melbury from an attacking Whig ruffian. Now he had stepped forward to save the life of an unnamed Whig whore who had set about selling her virtue for votes. When one customer determined that his vote was worth more than the lady would acknowledge, Mr. Evans presented himself and, without regard for party affiliation, sent the villain running.

I returned the paper to Elias. “I had no idea these events had become so widely known.”

“You must be careful of this sort of thing,” he told me. “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, not as being a man of strength. It is a fine way to be recognized.”

“It was no frivolous whim,” I assured him. “I could hardly stand by and let this ruffian grab Miss Dogmill’s bubbies with impunity.”

Elias gave a bored half shrug. “As to that, I cannot say. You know her bubbies better than I. Nevertheless, you ought to be more careful.”

“I wonder, if Dogmill had learned of this, whether he would be more happy that his sister had been saved or angered that I was the one to save her. He is very protective of her, you know.” I then repeated the tale that Miss Dogmill had told to me: that of her brother attacking the tradesman who had “abducted” her.

“What a marvelous tale,” he said. “And very instructive too, I think. I might use a dramatic version of it in my History of Alexander Claren. Perhaps I could have a rogue who merely pretends to have abducted a girl- with her consent, of course- in order to make her father-”

“Elias.” I interrupted his reverie. “Are you suggesting that I abduct Miss Dogmill and wait for her brother to come smashing through my walls like a baited bull?”

“Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. I want to use it. If word of your doing such a thing were to get around, the passage in my narrative would seem derivative. And right now, I think it quite the best idea I’ve had. No, you’ll have to come up with your own story, I think.”

“It was my own story,” I said.

“Then you’ll just have to come up with a story I haven’t stolen from you.”

I then brought him up-to-date with all that had happened in those very eventful days.

“I know that Titus Miller,” he said. “He is a dealer in bills. He has bought up one or two of mine in the past, and he is merciless- merciless, I say- in hounding his debtors. I heard once that he pushed his way into a bagnio where a shopkeeper was enjoying an assignation with a pretty little chestnut-haired harlot, and he refused to leave until this fellow had paid what he owed. I suspect that Melbury might have some rather painful encumbrances if Miller is troubling him.”

“Well, as you say, a Parliamentary race is a costly business.”

“These would be older debts. No one would trouble him for expenses of the race during the race. But I was made to understand that his wife, if you will excuse me for mentioning her, came with a handsome fortune.”

“Mrs. Melbury was surely clever enough to settle her property separately at their marriage. Perhaps Melbury is ashamed to speak to her of these debts. I have seen him at play, and these may be debts of honor, which he fears to mention to his wife. But Melbury’s encumbrances are the least of my worries. I should rather hear what you have to say of this Jacobite business.”