“What nonsense is this?” he cried. Mornay smiled on him benignly. “Can you not see, Monsieur le Capitaine? While they are looking for me at the Fleece, in Covent Garden, in the Heaven Inn, or in the Hell Tavern, here will I be riding along the Mall to the very place they would be least likely to look for me--in my lady’s boudoir!” Cornbury at once saw the value of the plan, but he never looked more sober. “And after?” he asked. “After?” replied Mornay, lightly. “After? Monsieur, you leave too little to the imagination. I think but of the present. _Le bon Dieu_ will provide for the future.” Vigot was given his orders to make shrewd inquiries of the servants of the neighbors of Mistress Clerke as to the hour of Captain Ferrers’s daily visits. He was also told to get a coach for monsieur. He stood puzzled a moment. “Monsieur wishes a haquenée?” he asked. “A haquenée? No, sirrah!” said Mornay, brusquely. “A pair, then?” he asked, scratching his head. “A pair?” roared Mornay. “No, sirrah! _Foi de ma vie!_ I wish a coach and four. Twenty guineas at the very least. If I wait upon madame at night, a dozen links. Be off with you!” Cornbury shook his head hopelessly. “Ye’re going to your funeral in style,” he said. * * * * * Mistress Barbara sat alone, looking out upon the quiet street. While she looked she saw nothing, and every line of her figure, in abandonment to her mood, spoke of sorrow and distraction. Her eyelids were red, and the richly laced _mouchoir_ which fell from the hand beneath her chin was moist with tears. Upon a tray were the dishes of a luncheon, untouched, and a number of papers, some of them torn, fell from her hand upon the floor. A dish of roses, a few French romances, a _manteau_ girdle, a copy of the _Annus Mirabilis_ of Dryden, a pair of scented gloves of Martial, and a cittern in the corner completed the gently bred disorder of the room. True, Sir Henry Heywood was no blood relation of hers, and had only been her guardian. A man of the world in the worst rather than the better sense, there had been little in his life to appeal to her. But he loved her in his own way and had been good to her in all matters that pertained to her estate, and so she mourned him as one would mourn the loss of one whom nearness had made dear. There was some bond which seemed to bind them more closely than their mere surface relations of ward and guardian--an undercurrent of devotion and servitude which she felt, though she could not understand the meaning. His death wrung her mind, if it did not wring her heart.