"Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty
Sally," said the man who had just entered, whilst worthy Mr. Jellyband
came bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of
one of the most favoured guests of his hostel.

"Lud, I protest, Sally," added Lord Antony, as he deposited a
kiss on Miss Sally's blooming cheeks, "but you are growing prettier
and prettier every time I see you--and my honest friend, Jellyband
here, have hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours.
What say you, Mr. Waite?"

Mr. Waite--torn between his respect for my lord and his dislike of
that particular type of joke--only replied with a doubtful grunt.

Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter,
was in those days a very perfect type of a young English
gentlemen--tall, well set-up, broad of shoulders and merry of face,
his laughter rang loudly whereever he went.  A good sportsman, a
lively companion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with not
too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a universal favourite in
London drawing-rooms or in the coffee-rooms of village inns.  At "The
Fisherman's Rest" everyone knew him--for he was fond of a trip across
to France, and always spent a night under worthy Mr. Jellyband's roof
on his way there or back.

He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last
released Sally's waist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry
himself: as he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at
the two strangers, who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and
for a moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his
jovial young face.

But only for a moment; the next he turned to Mr. Hempseed, who
was respectfully touching his forelock.

"Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?"

"Badly, my lord, badly," replied Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, "but
what can you `xpect with this `ere government favourin' them rascals
over in France, who would murder their king and all their nobility."

"Odd's life!" retorted Lord Antony; "so they would, honest
Hempseed,--at least those they can get hold of, worse luck!  But we
have got some friends coming here to-night, who at any rate have
evaded their clutches."

It almost seemed, when the young man said these words, as if
he threw a defiant look towards the quiet strangers in the corner.

"Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I've heard it said,"
said Mr. Jellyband.

But in a moment Lord Antony's hand fell warningly on mine host's arm.

"Hush!" he said peremptorily, and instinctively once again
looked towards the strangers.

"Oh!  Lud love you, they are all right, my lord," retorted
Jellyband; "don't you be afraid.  I wouldn't have spoken, only I knew
we were among friends.  That gentleman over there is as true and loyal
a subject of King George as you are yourself, my lord saving your
presence.  He is but lately arrived in Dover, and is setting down in
business in these parts."

"In business?  Faith, then, it must be as an undertaker, for I
vow I never beheld a more rueful countenance."

"Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower,
which no doubt would account for the melancholy of his bearing--but he
is a friend, nevertheless, I'll vouch for that-and you will own, my
lord, that who should judge of a face better than the landlord of a
popular inn--"

"Oh, that's all right, then, if we are among friends," said
Lord Antony, who evidently did not care to discuss the subject with
his host.  "But, tell me, you have no one else staying here, have you?"

"No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, leastways--"

"Leastways?"

"No one your lordship would object to, I know."

"Who is it?"

"Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will be here
presently, but they ain't a-goin' to stay--"

"Lady Blakeney?" queried Lord Antony, in some astonishment.

"Aye, my lord.  Sir Percy's skipper was here just now.  He
says that my lady's brother is crossing over to France to-day in the
DAY DREAM, which is Sir Percy's yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady
will come with him as far as here to see the last of him.  It don't
put you out, do it, my lord?"

"No, no, it doesn't put me out, friend; nothing will put me
out, unless that supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can
cook, and which has ever been served in `The Fisherman's Rest.'"