"Was it the ghost of a lady?" asked the Duke, who had been greatly amused by the dialogue. "The question could only be asked," said Charles, "by one who has not the advantage of knowing Master Wheatman." He laid a hand on my arm and drew me nearer. "My lord Duke," he went on, "I present to you the latest addition to my army, Mr. Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards, the first-fruit, I am convinced, of a rich harvest from the gentry of his shire." It was no plan of mine to cry stinking fish to a Prince who had engentried me in such distinguished company. "I'll have two blue stars and a jack in my coat-armour," thought I, as I bowed to the Duke, who made himself singularly graceful. There was now a general movement down the corridor, headed by the Prince with one of the unknown ladies on his arm. There was no other formal pairing though Lady Ogilvie deftly snapped up the Duke as he was coming for Margaret, and thus left her to me. She let the last pair get a yard or two ahead of us, and then looked at me, her eyes full of laughter, curtsied, and said, "Good morrow, Sir Kiss-the-ghost!" "Good morrow, madam," said I stoutly. She put her arm in mine and, as we moved off, whispered mockingly, "Sensible ghost!" CHAPTER XXI MASTER FREAKE KNOWS AT LAST Dinner was a success from the Prince's point of view. The Duke was completely won over to the idea of our going on, and even the Lord Ogilvie at one time wavered before the Prince's onslaught. The Irishmen were strongly in favour of it, and Mr. Secretary, when thawed by wine, grew expansive over its advantages. I incline to think that the rascal had ratted already, and was anxious to get all he could out of the Government by leading the Prince into a trap. Trap it would have been, as Culloden plainly showed. Against English regular soldiers, resolutely led, the Highlanders would work no more miracles. So for a space the chatter and laughter went on. Charles was already in St. James's, and the ladies were already queening it in the new Court over the renegade beauties of the old one. Even Margaret caught some of the enthusiasm, so that I whispered to her, "You beat our Kate at counting your unhatched chickens." Whereat she sobered all of a sudden, and whispered, "Maybe you are right, Oliver!" "I hope for your sake they are true prophets," I said. "I should dearly like to see you a marchioness before I go back to my farming." "That's one of the chickens I've not counted," she said. She looked at me very steadily, and then turned and plunged into the stream of conversation flowing around her.