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 and walked through Piccadilly, the Haymarket, Strand, &c., until we came to Fetter-Lane; and arriving at the White Horse, I was, I found, right in my conjecture, for the York coach was among the number of those advertised in large characters on each side the gateway of the inn. I introduced them to the coach-office, where they took places for die ensuing evening; and, as my night's ride had brought me to an appetite, I proposed (before going to my mother's, whose lodgings were close at hand,) that we should breakfast together; to which they assenting, I conducted them to the coffee-room, and calling the waiter, ordered tea, coffee, and plenty of muffins with all possible speed. We had nearly concluded our meal, and I had just bespoke a morning paper from the waiter, when the room beginning to fill, several gentlemen entered, and passed the table at which we sat, proceeding to the upper end of the room. At that moment a voice struck my ear, which almost petrified me with fear and astonishment, for I felt persuaded at the time that it was that of Mr. Oxley himself, exclaiming, "Waiter, see that portmanteau of mine brought in." On hearing these words, I almost dropped the tea-cup from my hand, and on the impulse of the moment, quitted my seat, and hastily left the room; nor did I stop for a moment's reflection until I had crossed Holborn, and found myself at the corner of Gray's-Inn-Lane. Then, however,