“Can I bow, sir, to a gentleman who has never heard of Titus Oates? Alack, John, I fear me I have many sad and solemn things to tell you! I thought that you had heard everything, and that you were wintering in the country—like a wise man. For it is not flattering at present to bear the name of Gore.” He saw the sea-captain straighten suddenly in his chair and look up at him keenly. “What do you mean, Sam?” “Mean, sir? Did I not warn you that the papists were likely to burn their fingers? And we are in the thick of such fire and fright and fury because of them that we are all afraid to catechize our own souls. News, my good John! The Protestants raging, informers making Ananias seem a simpleton, Catholic peers in the Tower, hundreds in jail, Coleman the Jesuit tried and executed, a warrant out against your father, who has taken to his heels and fled.” “Good God, Sam! Where?” “That is what certain people would like to know, sir. I pity your innocence, John, but we are all of us shaking in our shoes. Even the Queen has not been pitied.” John Gore sat forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, his eyes looking into the distance. He was silent a moment, while Mr. Pepys fidgeted with his feet and glanced nervously at both door and window. “I have not seen my—Lord Gore since I left London with you, Sam.” “No?” “I have heard nothing of all this. What is more, I have had matters of my own.” Mr. Pepys stroked his chin. “There is yet another piece of news, John.” “Well?” “Concerning the Purcells.” The sea-captain looked at him sharply. “What?” “Anne Purcell died of the small-pox a month ago.” “Anne Purcell!” “Yes; it would have been the talk of the town but for this furious belcher of accusations, even the man Oates.” John Gore looked at him in silence. “She was found dead in her bed in her house in Pall Mall. All the servants had fled, and the house had been rifled. But there also appears to be a mystery about the daughter. The lawyers have discovered that she was put away in the autumn for being of unsound mind; and now that all the property seems to have fallen to her, not a living soul knows what has become of the girl.” The sea-captain smiled very slightly, with a grim light in the eyes. “Who has the control of the matter?” he asked. “It has fallen into Chancery.” “Like the traveller to Jericho, Sam, in the parable. How long is it since my Lord Stephen hoisted sail?” “Somewhere about a month ago—before I returned from Portsmouth.” “Did Anne Purcell die before then?” “Heaven help me if I know, John. But what has that to do with the case?” “More than you know, my friend—more than you may suspect.” He had the air of a man who was troubled and perplexed by many difficulties. “Sam, I want your help and advice. I can trust you.” Mr. Pepys made him a little bow. “Where are you staying, John?”