“’Tis so. I have an appointment with Captain Ferrers at the Fleece for eleven.” Cornbury’s face fell. “Egad, man, ye’re incorrigible! And d’ye think he’ll meet ye?” “I don’t know. He may not, alone. But I think that he will, in company. If he does, I’ll not fail him.” “Don’t ye go. It will be a trap. The man will not fight, I tell you, while the law of England can do his vengeance for him. Ye’ll run afoul of an army of constables.” “I know it, but I’ll risk it.” “And if ye kill him ye destroy the last proof of yer birth,” sneered the Irishman. “I don’t know,” replied Mornay, coolly. Cornbury stormed up and down the room in a rage. “Ye’ll have your will,” he cried, “for the sake of a little fight. Go to your death, rash man that ye are, but don’t say that I haven’t warned ye.” “Cornbury, listen. I’ve a desire to look into the pockets of this Capitaine Ferraire.” “And what do ye think ye’ll find there--the blessing of the Pope?” Mornay laughed outright. “Perhaps, but not for me. An idea has grown upon me, and now possesses me body and soul. It is that these papers are in the coat of Monsieur Ferraire.” Cornbury sent out a sudden volume of smoke to signify his disgust. “P’sh! Do ye think the man has but one suit? Ye’ll lose your labor, sir. He has hidden yer proofs most secretly by this.” “None the less, _mon ami_, I’m going to pick his pocket!” There was a thin skim of storm over the face of the moon as Mornay and Cornbury left the Swan Tavern. The wind was fitful in the streets, and, though the season was June, as they passed a corner now and then a heavy gust, full of the dampness and rigor of October, flew full in their faces and caused them to pull their summer cloaks more closely about them. Following in their footsteps were three men, one of whom was Vigot. The other two were the rascals who had served as outriders to Monsieur Mornay in the afternoon: Tom Trice, a tall and slender, stoop-shouldered man, who peered uneasily to left and right, and “Scaldy” Quinn, who was short, with a most generous breadth of leg and shoulder. The Frenchman had paid them liberally before leaving the Swan, and the understanding was that they should follow instructions without question, and if necessary be prepared to strike a sturdy blow or two for monsieur, who was going into the camp of his enemies. The Fleece Tavern had lately gained a bad name by reason of the many brawls and homicides that had occurred within its walls. The place was not inaptly named, for its master, Papworth, took money when and how he might, and bore the name of one who would not stop at a sinister deed if it would avail him to achieve his end. But in spite of its disrepute among the more careful of its gamesters at the court, the Fleece was still frequented by a larger following than any other gaming-house in London. There was more money to be seen there. Most of its rooms were filled at all hours with a motley crowd of men of the town, noblemen,