"Two months ago I was an honest man," I answered bitterly, "and then I got into _his_ clutches. And he has ridden me. Ah, how he has ridden me!" "I see," he said, nodding gravely. "Well, his riding days are over. Hark you, Mr. Ferguson," he continued, turning to the prostrate man, who, grovelling before us--I had taken the precaution of tying his hands with my garters--acknowledged his attention by a hollow groan, "I am no thief-taker, and I shall not soil my hands with you. But within an hour the messengers will be here; and if they find you, look to yourself; for I think that in that case you will indubitably hang. In the meantime I will take your pistol." Then to me, "Come, my man," he said, "if you wish to go with me." "I do," I cried. "Well, I owe you more than that," he answered kindly. "And I need you, besides. Mr. Ferguson, I bid you farewell. You have proved yourself a more foolish man than I thought you. A worse you could not. The best I can wish you is that you may never see my face again." CHAPTER XXIII My lord, I found, had a coach, without arms or insignia, waiting for him at the Great Turnstile in Holborn; where, if persons recognised him as he alighted, he would be taken to have business with the lawyers in Lincoln's Inn, or at my Lord Somers's in the Fields. Following him to the coach on foot, I never saw a man walk in more deep or anxious thought. He took no heed of me, after bidding me by a gesture to attend him; but twice he stood in doubt, and once he made as if he would return whence he had come, and once as if he would cross the Fields--I think to Powis House. In the end he went on, and arriving at the coach, the door of which was opened for him by a footman in a plain livery, he bade me by a sign to follow him into it. This I was not for doing, thinking it too great an honour; but on his crying impatiently, "Man, how do you think I am to talk to you if you ride outside?" I hastened to enter, in equal confusion and humility. Nevertheless, some time elapsed, and we had travelled the length of Holborn before he spoke. Then rousing himself on a sudden from his preoccupation, he looked at me. "Do you know a man called Barclay?" said he. "No, your Grace," I answered. "Sir George Barclay?" "No, your Grace." "Or Porter? Or Charnock? Or King?" "No, your Grace." "Umph!" said he, seeming to be disappointed; and for a time he looked out of the window. Presently, however, he glanced at me again, and so sharply that I dropped my eyes, out of respect. "I have seen you before," he said, at last. Surprised beyond measure that he remembered me, so many years having elapsed, I confessed with emotion that he had. "Where?" he asked plainly. "I see many people. And I have not old Rowley's memory." I told him. "Your Grace may not remember it," I said, greatly moved, "but many years ago at Abbot's Stanstead, at Sir Baldwin Winston's----"