“An inward conviction, my lord. So you will not tell me who he is?” “Have I not told you I know of no such person as Count L'Estrange? You ought to believe me. Oh, here it comes.” This last was addressed to a great drop of rain, which splashed heavily on his upturned face, followed by another and another in quick succession. “The storm is upon us,” said the earl, sitting up and wrapping his cloak closer around him, “and I am for Whitehall. Shall we land you, Ormiston, or take you there, too?” “I must land,” said Ormiston. “I have a pressing engagement for the next half-hour. Here it is, in a perfect deluge; the fires will be out in five minutes.” The barge touched the stairs, and Ormiston sprang out, with “Good-night” to the earl. The rain was rushing along, now, in torrents, and he ran upstairs and darted into an archway of the bridge, to seek the shelter. Some one else had come there before him, in search of the same thing; for he saw two dark figures standing within it as he entered. “A sudden storm,” was Ormiston's salutation, “and a furious one. There go the fires--hiss and splutter. I knew how it would be.” “Then Saul and Mr. Ormiston are among the prophets?” Ormiston had heard that voice before; it was associated in his mind with a slouched hat and shadowy cloak; and by the fast-fading flicker of the firelight, he saw that both were here. The speaker was Count L'Estrange; the figure beside him, slender and boyish, was unknown. “You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said affecting ignorance. “May I ask who you are?” “Certainly. A gentlemen, by courtesy and the grace of God.” “And your name?” “Count L'Estrange, at your service.” Ormiston lifted his cap and bowed, with a feeling somehow, that the count was a man in authority. “Mr. Ormiston assisted in doing a good deed, tonight, for a friend of mine,” said the count. “Will he add to that obligation by telling me if he has not discovered her again, and brought her back?” “Do you refer to the fair lady in yonder house?” “So she is there? I thought so, George,” said the count, addressing himself to his companion. “Yes, I refer to her, the lady you saved from the river. You brought her there?” “I brought her there,” replied Ormiston. “She is there still?” “I presume so. I have heard nothing to the contrary.” “And alone?” “She may be, now. Sir Norman Kingsley was with her when I left her,” said Ormiston, administering the fact with infinite relish. There was a moment's silence. Ormiston could not see the count's face; but, judging from his own feelings, he fancied its expression must be sweet. The wild rush of the storm alone broke the silence, until the spirit again moved the count to speak. “By what right does Sir Norman Kingsley visit her?” he inquired, in a voice betokening not the least particle of emotion. “By the best of rights--that of her preserver, hoping soon to be her lover.”