'No,' says Nick, shaking his head very solemn; though maybe his eye twinkled. Mr. Wogan forgets what point the plot was at then, for since the black year, 1688, there had been but one plot, though it had changed and shifted shape like the faces you see in the dark before you sleep. But he could not hear that anything immediate was intended; and it would be, therefore, the most convenient occasion to refit his ketch _Fortune_. He gave orders to that effect, travelled to Paris, obtained from General Dillon a month's leave to dispose of his own affairs, and went whistling to London like a schoolboy off on his holidays. For, to tell the truth, he was not greatly concerned at George Kelly's backslidings, but on the contrary was inclined to chuckle over them, and trusted completely to his friend's discretion. He arrived in London on November 20, and drove boldly to Kelly's lodging in Bury Street. For the Glenshiel affair had completely blown over--there had never been more than a rumour that he was there--and as for the Fifteen, why Mr. Wogan had his pardon like the rest. That he got for his behaviour to Captain Montagu at Preston; moreover, who could know the boy Wogan that ran away from Westminster School, and his task of copying Lord Clarendon's history, in Mr. Hilton, the man of six feet four in his stockings. He found Kelly's lodgings empty. 'A letter came for him three days ago,' explained Mrs. Barnes, 'and he set off almost on the instant in an agitation so great that he did not wait to pack his valise, but had it sent after him.' 'Where to?' 'I do not know,' replied Mrs. Barnes with a sniff of the nose and a toss of the head, 'and no doubt I am a better woman for not knowing.' 'No doubt, replied Wogan gravely. 'But, Mrs. Barnes, who signed the letter? Where did it come from?' 'And how should I know that?' she cried. 'Would I demean myself by reading the letters of a nasty trull? For she's no better for all her birth, and that's not so high neither.' 'Ah,' says Wogan, 'I see you don't know who signed the letter.' 'And that's truth,' said she, 'but I saw the superscription. As for the letter, he hid it in his bosom.' 'Well, that's as good as showing the signature. Who carried his valise after him?' 'Francis Vanlear,' she said, 'the porter who plyed in St. James's Street and Piccadilly and lodged at the Crown ale-house in Germain Street.' Thither Wogan sent for him, and when he was come asked him whither he had carried the valise. 'To Mr. Gunning's at Mussell Hill,' Vanlear answered, where he had found a horse ready saddled at the door and 'Mr. Johnson' in a great fume to be off.