It was late on the following morning ere Lord Mowbray's valet ventured to enter his lordship's chamber. The daylight fell upon the red and swollen eyelids of the sleeper, who opened his eyes and uttered an oath. It was evident that the young nobleman was not in his best humor. "Is that you, Oliver?" "Yes, my lord." "Who is in the antechamber?" "Your lordship's tailor, who has come to try on the plum-colored coat with the jonquil trimmings; the little glove-woman from Piccadilly, who insists upon a word with your lordship; and Capt. Hackman, who has already called twice to inquire for your lordship." "Let the tailor wait. Tell the Captain that I shall require his services later, and let him see to it that he brings two fellows of the determined sort along with him. As for the glove-woman, send her away. Because one shows these creatures some little attention of an evening when one is drunk, they think they have rights. Nothing could be more ridiculous, Oliver." "Assuredly not, my lord." "Is Lebeau there?" "Mons. Lebeau has this instant come in." "Ask him to come to me." A moment later the former tutor and present factotum of Lord Mowbray smilingly entered the chamber like a man who expects to receive his quietus with a bare bodkin and is disposed to make the best of it. His lordship addressed him in French. "_Eh bien_, Lebeau?" "_Eh bien_, my lord? Did you not receive my message by the little page from Brooks's?" "Of course I did, and I was furious at such a mischance. Here had fate cast her into my very arms, and your cursed bungling let her escape!" "Say, rather, the accident of fate, my lord. I was just in the act of putting the little one into a coach, when a band of ruffians, hotly pursued by the soldiers, fell upon us and knocked me down. When I regained my feet, Miss Woodville had vanished, and I was a prisoner in the hands of the guards. In vain I assured them that I was attached to your lordship's service. All that I was able to inform you was that I had failed." Lord Mowbray looked his confidant full in the eyes. "You are decidedly growing old," he said. "That may be." "Yes, you are growing old, and worse than that. Your compatriots have it that when the devil is old he turns hermit. Are you doing likewise? As God is my judge, Lebeau, I believe you are becoming virtuous." Lebeau affected an offended air. "My lord," he retorted, "I believe myself above such a suspicion. My past record answers for me." "You are joking, but I am serious. Do you know the thought that has suggested itself to me, more especially since yesterday?" "I cannot fancy, my lord." "Well, that you are playing me false!" With folded arms, Lebeau calmly regarded the speaker. "Playing you false?" he echoed steadily. "For what reason?" "That is what I wish to know." [Illustration]