It was the personality of the mysterious Mohock, once convicted of masculinity, which most exercised their minds. He was certainly an individual of importance, as so momentous a mission would hardly have been entrusted to a nonentity. But who? A dozen names suggested themselves, Berwick, Tyrconnel, Lord Henry Fitzjames, the ex-monarch’s natural son, Marlborough himself, and others. It was Zuylestein, speaking for the first and last time, who finally put the spark to all this accumulating tow. “Vat,” he said, “if it is James himselv, zegretly gom over from St. Germains and resolved upon venturing dis bigduresque abbeal to de poblic?” “Bom-bom!” said Schomberg. He rose, Halifax rose, they all rose, and faced the King. “Ik dank U, mijnheer,” said his Majesty; “it is a very blausible suggestion.” The words were equivalent to a bid to action. The Council broke up hurriedly, and within an hour the Dutch troops had been beaten to arms, the militia called out, the magistrates warned, and the whole city placed under a surveillance of the most searching description. It was at this momentous pass, when panic was in the air, that Sir Charles Dymoke walked unconcerned into the “Cock” tavern, in Tothill Street, and was immediately arrested by the guard set to watch that hostelry, and conveyed in a state of complete stupefaction to Whitehall. He was taken at once before the King sitting in Council. “Vere haf you been?” demanded William sternly. “Your Majesty!” gasped the Champion, a sturdy gallant of middle age. “Answer, sir,” said the monarch--“and vidout eguivocation.” “I have been with a friend,” stammered Sir Charles, all amazement. “Ach!” exclaimed his Majesty sarcastically. “The vrow, vas it, vat returnt you your gage in the Hall yesterday?” “Certainly not, sire,” said the Champion, the flush of outrage on his cheek. “Not?” said the King. “Who vas she, den, dat voman?” “The wife of Dobney, the horse-tamer, sire.” “The vife--vat! Vat had she said to you?” “She said, your Majesty, ‘Didn’t I warn you not to throw it down in front of her nose, unless you want her to kneel and pick it up?’” “She? Who?” “The mare, sire. She performs at Islington.” “Your Majesty,” said the Lord Privy Seal very softly, “shall we thank Sir Charles and proceed to the order of the day?” “Bom-bom!” said Schomberg under his breath. George I “Halt!” The voice of an officer rang out in the heavy twilight, and with a sudden scream of brakes and jangle of harness the cavalcade came to a stand. “Tell the Herr von Gastein his Majesty desires to speak with him.” The name ran up the long line, quick and sharp, like a rattle of musketry, and passed out of hearing of him who had uttered it. “Tell the Herr Captain to come at once.”