The sky grew more heavily clouded as Bess and Jeffray neared the sea, and the distant downs stood out with peculiar distinctness under the ragged fringes of the wind-blown clouds. The two in the coach hardly so much as heeded the darkening of the day, or the dishevelled clouds that were shutting out the sun. They were still blessed by the preservation of the morning, and by the thought that the sea would rock their troubles to an end. The coach rolled fast over the flats, dust blowing in clouds, and the windows rattling and banging with the wind. Jeffray had shouted to the coachman not to spare his horseflesh, for there was no knowing how far old Grimshaw’s doggedness might not take him. He smiled, and looked glad when they neared the outskirts of the little town, and could see the masts of the ships and fishing-boats rising in the harbor. Even the banking of the clouds, and the gusts of wind that beat about the coach, gave him no thought or trouble nor dulled the ardor of the day. “Bess, are you much of a sailor?” She smiled at him and shook her head. “How should I remember? It is so long ago. I am not afraid,” and her eyes delighted him. “We may have a rough passage.” “I am used to storms—” “God knows, dear, yes!” and he held her hand. The coach drew up before an inn close to the quay, with a few sailors lounging on the benches under the windows, and a weathered sign-board bearing a rude painting of the “King Harry” creaking on its rusty hinges above the door. Jeffray sprang out of the coach and crossed the footway with his sword under his arm. A few hairy and inquisitive faces were pressed against the windows of the tap-room. Jeffray eyed them keenly, alive to the possibilities of old Grimshaw’s malice. He looked round the tap-room as he entered, scanning the sailors, who smoked their pipes and stared at him in turn. He found the innkeeper coming down the dark passage from the kitchen, a little man, bald, buckled, and white-aproned, with a red wart in the middle of his forehead. “Good-morning, landlord. I hear a brig is to sail for France to-day.” The innkeeper bowed, rubbed his double chin, and pointed Jeffray to the door of the parlor. The sound of voices came from the room, bluff with the burliness of the sea. “Captain George, of the _Sussex Queen_, is within, sir,” he said, pushing open the door, and giving Jeffray a glimpse into the foggy atmosphere of the room. Richard walked in. “Thanks. Captain George, I believe?” A big man in a blue coat and white breeches, with dirtier buckles on still dirtier shoes, rose cumbrously from a leather-backed chair, and held out a paw to the Squire of Rodenham. A second seafaring gentleman occupied the oak settle, and spat rhythmically on the floor, while the reek of tobacco battled with the abominable odor of stale beer. “I’m Captain George, sir, to be sure.” Jeffray took stock of the red-faced and loose-jointed seaman, and summed him up as a sloven and a drunkard.