Beachcombe went to the stable himself to make inspection, but could discover no mark or sign to enlighten the most sharpsighted. "Oh! if you could speak!" he muttered, as he caressed the glossy coat and deer-like head of his favorite. "If you could tell me where you have been these three hours!" But there was nothing to be learned; not so much as could be shown by a muddy fetlock. If the horse had been out of town, he had been carefully groomed on his return and every trace of travel removed. His master returned to the house, more morose and vengeful than ever, to while away the hours that slowly passed until it was time to dress for the great entertainment at Marlborough House. When he descended from his wife’s apartments, where he had gone to display himself in his masquerade dress, he was certainly a magnificent and picturesque figure. His costume, of the period of Charles II., was of white satin, profusely trimmed with exquisite lace, and adorned with dazzling orders and jewels. A wig of long curls softened the harsh outline of his face, and a skilful touch of rouge relieved his swarthy pallor and lent a brilliancy to his dark eyes. His resemblance to Robin was remarkable enough then to have struck the most unobservant. Over his arm he carried a voluminous domino of scarlet silk, and a mask to match dangled from his jeweled fingers. He was stepping into his carriage, when a little black figure darted in front of him, and Samuel, bowing to the very ground before this gorgeous apparition, besought a word with him. "Leave him alone," cried Beachcombe, as two or three serving-men stepped forward to sweep this insect from their master’s path. "Have you anything important to say to me?" he eagerly inquired. "Most important, your worship—I mean your Lordship," replied Samuel. "I’ve got it; only just now, though, and I’ve run every step of the way," and he showed a corner of the letter hidden in his breast. "Give it to me," said Beachcombe, in a low, concentrated voice, and held out his hand for it. But Samuel hung back. "My Lord—my Lord—" he stammered, clutching the packet like a drowning man grasping a straw, "will you give me my hundred pounds?" "What, now; before I see the papers? Besides, I’ve not so much about me," exclaimed Beachcombe. "Why, you imp of the devil, are you afraid to trust me? Here, take my purse and give me that packet. I must have it _now_, do you hear? And come to me to-morrow for your hundred guineas." And before Samuel could make up his mind what to do, he found himself standing alone with a silken purse, full of golden guineas, in his hand, and the precious packet being whirled away from him in the earl’s chariot.