Then he saw that Blob had by the collar the Grenadier he had killed, and with groanings and pantings and strange animal noises, was hauling his victim towards the dark mouth of the cellar. "Leave him alone," called Kit sternly. "D'you call that a respectable way to treat the dead?" He laid a piece of sacking over the corpse, adding--"That'll do to cover him up till we can bury him properly." "But Oi don't want un buried," whined Blob. "Oi be goin to keep un agin the fifth o Novambur--guy for Bloub!" "You're going to do no such thing, you disgusting little beast. You'll get your tuppence, and you don't deserve that." "Ah," said Blob cunningly, "this un'll be worth a little better'n tuppence surely. You knaw who he be, Maaster Sir?" "Who then?" Blob dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Squoire Nabowlin. Mus. Poiper tall me." "Who?" "Squoire Nabowlin," reiterated the boy. "Nabowlin Bounabaardie--the top Frenchie. See the legs on him! red and gold and buttons and all." II The Gentleman was sauntering across the grass towards the cottage, his hands behind him. The Parson brushed aside the mattress, and thrust out, snarling. "Keep your distance, sir, or take the consequences." The Gentleman strolled forward. "Ah, there you are, Padre. I came to have a little chat." "Stand fast then, and state your business!--This is war, not play- acting. I hate your silly swagger." "Well, in the first place I thought you might care to know that your man's through." "Thank you for nothing. Knew that already." "But you know--there's always a little but in this world--hateful word, isn't it?--but, but, but--he's too late." "What ye mean?" "I mean that Nelson reached Dover last night, and sails this afternoon. The _Medusa_'ll be off here at dawn if this breeze holds." Dover! The Parson had forgotten Dover. Chatham, the Admiralty, Merton! in his note he had urged Beauchamp to send messengers post-haste to all three; but Dover! "That's all right," he called calmly. "I've a galloping express half- way there by now, thank ye." The other shook his head with a grave smile. "It's sixty miles in a bee-line from Lewes to Dover, and plenty of public-houses on the road. No Englishman could do it under eight hours on a hot day. If your romance-man gets there by midnight, he'll do well--and still be hours too late." The Parson remained unmoved. "It makes no odds," he called loftily. "If you want to know, Nelson's not in England." "Is he not? where is he then?" "Why, where he ought to be--hammering the Combined Squadron somewhere St. Vincent way." "How d'you know?" "He's my cousin on my father's side. I heard from his mother only-- only--" "By last night's mail!" suggested the Gentleman. "May I ask then why you trouble to send a galloping express to Dover to stop him?" The Parson's face darkened. He thrust forward. "And may I ask how _you_ know Nelson got to Dover last night?" The other shrugged. "I have agents."