"Perhaps you will take more interest in this matter when I tell you that it is not Betty I propose to see," I answered. "I am deliberately offering to take you to see some one else who is about to leave England." She stood on tiptoe and kissed my lips for answer, then sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands to hide the sudden tears. I went to the window and waited till she was calm. I longed to comfort her by telling of the faint prospect of good fortune that lay in Le Grand's letter, but I hesitated raising a hope which might never be realized. At the end of five minutes I went to her and said: "Let me ask the duchess to excuse you for to-night, and in the morning I'll meet you on Bowling Green stairs, at, say, seven o'clock." "I'll be there," she answered, smiling through her tears. The next morning we took boat, and the tide running out, made good speed to the Bridge, hastened to the Old Swan, and found George in his printing shop awaiting us. I remained in the old tapestried room, leaving Frances and George to say their farewells. In the course of a few minutes he called me in. He had donned his Quaker disguise, and on the floor near him was a small bundle of linen. Frances was weeping, and George's voice was choked with emotion. "Well, at last, Baron Ned, you are to be rid of me," he said, glancing toward the bundle at his feet. "What are your plans of escape?" I asked. "I shall work my way down to Sheerness, where I hope to find a boat for The Hague or the French coast. Lilly, who seems to know everything, past, present and future, came last night to tell me that the king has fifty men seeking me in various parts of England, especially the seaports, and has offered a reward of two hundred pounds for me, dead or alive, preferably dead, I suppose. If I go direct to Sheerness and try to take a boat, I am sure to be examined, and I'm not prepared for the ordeal. So I intend to preach my way down the river and induce the king's officers to send me abroad by force." "How are you off for money, George?" I asked. "I borrowed ten guineas from Lilly," he answered. "I thought you might be in need of money, so I brought fifty guineas from the strong box under my bed," I said, offering him the little bag of gold. He hesitated, saying: "If I take the money, you may never again see a farthing of it." "In that case, I'll take my pay in abusing you," I replied. "Do you believe he would, Frances?" asked George, turning to my cousin. Then continuing thoughtfully: "It is strange that I should have found such a friend at the bottom of a quarrel, all because I allowed him to abuse me. Truly forbearance is a profitable virtue. The 'other cheek' is the better of the two." Upon my insistence, he accepted the gold and gave me the ten guineas he had borrowed from Lilly, asking me to return them.