At six o’clock that evening, in the little front room of the Chanticlear Tavern, there were five men seated about the table. The conversation, that had first been of home affairs and the discussion of the latest news from the army--the battles of Trenton and Princeton and Washington’s doings--soon turned to matters nearer at hand. Mr. Hodge, a strong-featured, red-faced man of a traditional John Bull appearance, sat between the two Ross brothers. After the waiter had left and they were all alone he began to talk, and his audience resolved themselves into the most eager listeners. Conyngham had told his story of the capture of the prize crew, and the recital had at once placed him as one who was worthy of every confidence, and before whom everything could be said openly. “You’d have laughed,” went on Mr. Hodge, continuing the story of his trip to Paris, “to have heard the good doctor describe his arrival in Paris. As yet he has not been received openly at court, but that will all come in due time. Nevertheless, the number of fine names and titles and high personages whom he has met would make quite a bill of lading. You see Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, has his suspicions. He would be a dolt if he hadn’t. And the Count de Vergennes, the king’s Prime Minister, has his also, but the latter’s are the harder to guess. I don’t exactly understand the Frenchman,” continued Mr. Hodge. “He’s a bit too deep for me, and whether or not he is blowing hot and cold to save time, or whether he is really anxious in the end to be of service to us, is more than I can answer for. My own idea of it is that he has but one idea in his head, and that is France, and that he would see our country swamped and ruined if he could further France’s interest in the slightest degree. He realizes, no doubt, that in England’s troubles and difficulties lie France’s opportunities, and that the more she is weakened and distressed, the easier it will be for France when the war comes; for, mark my words, the temper of the French people can not long be restrained, and sooner or later England and this country will be at each other’s throats. But, nevertheless, gentlemen, it is well worth our time to keep a wary eye on M. le Comte de Vergennes, and mind his doings carefully. But I have digressed. I was speaking of Franklin--he told me that Lord Stormont had objected to his coming to Paris at all, and said that ‘if this arch-rebel reaches the city I will away home with me, bag and baggage.’ ‘All right,’ says de Vergennes, ‘anything to please your excellency! We will despatch a messenger to stop him.’ And so a messenger was sent to meet the diligence by which ‘Goodman Richard’ was coming into Paris, but the messenger took the wrong road and never met the doctor, and the first thing you know Lord Stormont hears that the ‘arch-traitor’ has arrived. ‘Heavens, mercy me!’ exclaims de Vergennes, when his lordship calls upon him.