I answered to the spur and pressed forward at once. He led the way along a dark passage and down a flight of stone steps into a cellar fitted up as a drinking room. There was another low-toned consultation before we were admitted. I surmised that Balmerino stood sponsor for me, and though I was a little disturbed at my equivocal position, yet I was strangely glad to be where I was. For here was a promise of adventure to stimulate a jaded appetite. I assured myself that at least I should not suffer dulness. There were in the room a scant dozen of men, and as I ran them over with my eye the best I could say for their quality in life was that they had not troubled the tailor of late. Most of them were threadbare at elbow and would have looked the better of a good dinner. There were two or three exceptions, but for the most part these broken gentlemen bore the marks of recklessness and dissipation. Two I knew: the O'Sullivan that had assisted at the plucking of a certain pigeon on the previous night, and Mr. James Brown, alias Mac-something or other, of the supple sword and the Highland slogan. Along with another Irishman named Anthony Creagh the fellow O'Sullivan rushed up to my Lord, eyes snapping with excitement. He gave me a nod and a "How d'ye do, Montagu? Didn't know you were of the honest party," then broke out with-- "Great news, Balmerino! The French fleet has sailed with transports for fifteen thousand men. I have advices direct from the Prince. Marshal Saxe commands, and the Prince himself is with them. London will be ours within the week. Sure the good day is coming at last. The King--God bless him!--will have his own again; and a certain Dutch beer tub that we know of will go scuttling back to his beloved Hanover, glory be the day!" Balmerino's eyes flashed. "They have sailed then at last. I have been expecting it a week. If they once reach the Thames there is no force in England that can stop them," he said quietly. "Surely the small fleet of Norris will prove no barrier?" asked another dubiously. "Poof! They weel eat heem up jus' like one leetle mouse, my frien'," boasted a rat-faced Frenchman with a snap of his fingers. "Haf they not two sheeps to his one?" "Egad, I hope they don't eat the mutton then and let Norris go," laughed Creagh. He was a devil-may-care Irishman, brimful of the virtues and the vices of his race.