By the time Monsieur Mornay had reached the Swan in Fenchurch Street, he was so far in possession of his senses that, with a manner all his own, he roused the master of the house from his bed and bade him set out a cold pâté and two bottles of wine in the back room upstairs against the coming of the Irishman. Nor had he long to wait, for Captain Cornbury, flushed and breathless, soon burst into the room. When he saw Mornay his face relaxed in a look of relief. “Egad! ye’re here,” he said. “’Twixt this and that I’ve had a thousand doubts about ye. For the present, then, ye’re safe.” Mornay pushed a bench towards him. “Then Ferrers has--” “Ferrers and Dorset--I’ faith, between them they’ve raised the divil. And Captain Ferrers--by the ten holy fingers of the Pope! there was a fine notary spoiled when Ferrers took service with the King. For all the lyin’ scoundrels--” “He accused me?” “Egad! he swore _you_ were the head and foot of the whole business--” “_Tonnerre de Dieu!_ And the Duke?” “I raged and swore to no purpose. Dorset believes Ferrers. He says you began it in the gallery.” The Frenchman looked towards the ceiling with hands upraised. “The unfortunate _politesse_ of Monsieur Mornay! The English I cannot understand.” “Ferrers swears it was a plot hatched in the Fleece Tavern, and that I was a party to it.” Mornay arose and grasped the Irishman’s shoulder. “_You!_ My poor friend, YOU!” he exclaimed; “and I disarmed him twice. It is too much--let us go at once and face them.” Cornbury pushed him down. “Ye’ll do no such thing. ’Twould be arrant suicide. The streets are full of men looking for you by this--and me, too.” “They cannot--you didn’t even know.” “’Tis true, or I’m Dutch. Look ye, man, we’re safe here, and snug. Four-and-twenty lances couldn’t get through Tom Boyle downstairs if he’d set his mind to stop them. Rest awhile and compose yer mind. Besides--” He broke off abruptly and reached for the bottle. “Give me a drink--I can talk no more. The words are all--parchin’ in my throat.” Mornay sank back upon his bench, while the Irishman filled and drained his cup. At last he gave a great grunt of satisfaction, and with smiling face set the vessel down upon the table with a clatter. “Ochone! Talking is but a dry thrade.” “_Allons_, Captain,” said Mornay, “tell me all.” He drew the platter over and helped himself liberally from the pâté. “Well, monsieur, when I went back, Heywood was making a kind of statement to Ferrers--something in the nature of a dying confession. It appears that this fellow Heywood is a thieving rascal, and if ye’ve killed him ’tis good riddance, say I.” He paused a moment to pour his wine. “As ye know,” he continued, his mouth full--“as ye know, the man is the guardian of Mistress Barbara Clerke. He has the disposition in the law of her fortune. Well, from what he confesses, ’tis not her fortune, after all.”