No, no, Baron Ned, there is no other
'certain customer.'" But she checked herself, evidently having said more
than she intended, and continued hurriedly: "But Master Hamilton has not
left England. He is now in the Old Swan. He asked me to say nothing of
his presence in London, but I know he would want me to tell you."

"Yes, yes, of course he would, Betty. Where is he?" I asked.

"Upstairs in bed," she answered.

"Is he sick?" I asked, rising.

"No and yes," she replied. "He is suffering from his wounds, and the
surgeon says the fever is mounting rapidly to his head."

"His wounds?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, lots of them," she answered. "But I hope none of them are serious,
save for the loss of blood."

"Wounds? Blood? Tell me, Betty, tell me! Has he been in trouble?" I
asked, deeply concerned.

"You see it was this way, Baron Ned," she began, leaning back against the
table and smoothing out her apron. "Yesterday while Mistress Gwynn and
another lady, a duchess, were eating their dinner in the small dining
room, three drunken ruffians came in and tried to kiss them. Master
Hamilton, who was here at this very table, heard the disturbance, so he
drew his sword, ran to the rescue, and he and I beat the fellows out. He
fought beautifully, but one man can't stand long against three, so I
upset two of the ruffians by tripping them--pulled their feet from under
them, you know--and Master Hamilton's sword did the rest. One of them ran
away, and the other two were carried to the hospital on stretchers. One
of the ruffians had tried to kiss me a few minutes before, and I had
almost drowned him with a pot of tea. If he ever returns, I'll see that
the tea is boiling."

"It seems that every one is wanting to kiss you, Betty," I remarked.

"Not every one, but too many," she rejoined.

"And you don't want to be kissed, Betty?" I asked.

"Well, not by the wrong man," she answered, laughing softly and tossing
her head emphatically.

"I wish I were the right man," I suggested.

"There is no right man--yet," she returned, laughing and dimpling till I
almost wished there was not a dimpling stubborn girl in all the world.

"Betty, you're a bloodthirsty little wretch," I said, shaking my head
sorrowfully. "You scald one man and help Hamilton to kill two."

"Oh, they will not die," she answered seriously. "I was haunted by the
fear that they might, so I got up in the middle of the night, took father
and one of the boys with a lin