Some ten or twelve days after I had partaken with Sir Neil Eccles of one of his familiar Sunday dinners, at which Dr. Lembeck and Mr. Woodrife were commonly present, he came to my counting-house, and inquired if I happened to be engaged for that afternoon, for if not, as he would be detained late in the India-house, he would dine with me.

The frank style of this self-invitation was flattering, and I gladly acceded to the proposal; but although by that time I was familiar with him, there was ever something about his manner, as often as I chanced to see him in any new circumstance, that more or less mysteriously interested my curiosity. On this occasion I felt it particularly.

During the few minutes he remained with me, nothing in any degree could justly be said to have attracted my attention, saving only that unaccountable sidelong-look which I had so often before noticed; but when he went away, one of my fits of reverie came on, in which I began to think on that look and his remarkable visit.

“It is evident,” said I, in soliloquy, “that there is some strange method in the civilities of Sir Neil. He has some purpose to promote by the manner in which he uniformly treats me. What can it be? And how has it arisen?