e slip, and we must fall back on lesser
game."

"Le Fevre." Oates mouthed the name. "The Queen's confessor. I was spit
upon by him at St. Omer, and would waipe out the affront. A dog of a
Frainch priest! A man I have long abhaarred."

"So also have I." Prance had venom in his level voice. "But he is no
Frenchman. He is English as you--a Phayre out of Huntingdon."

The name penetrated Lovel's dulled wits. Phayre! It was the one man who
in his father's life had shown him unselfish kindness. Long ago in Paris
this Phayre had been his teacher, had saved him from starvation,
had treated him with a gentleman's courtesy. Even his crimes had not
estranged this friend. Phayre had baptized his child, and tended his
wife when he was in hiding. But a week ago he had spoken a kindly word
in the Mall to one who had rarely a kind word from an honest man.

That day had been to the spy a revelation of odd corners in his soul.
He had mustered in the morning the resolution to kill one man. Now he
discovered a scruple which bade him at all risks avert the killing of
another. He perceived very clearly what the decision meant--desperate
peril, perhaps ruin and death. He dare not delay, for in a little he
would be too deep in the toils. He must escape and be first with the
news of Godfrey's death in some potent quarter. Buckingham, who was a
great prince. Or Danby. Or the King himself....

The cunning of a lifetime failed him in that moment. He slipped through
the door, but his coat caught in a splinter of wood, and the rending
of it gave the alarm. As with quaking heart he ran up the silent
stable-yard towards the Strand gate he felt close on him the wind of the
pursuit. In the dark he slipped on a patch of horse-dung and was down.
Something heavy fell atop of him, and the next second a gross agony tore
the breath from him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Five minutes later Bedloe was unknotting a coarse kerchief and stuffing
it into his pocket. It was the same that had strangled Godfrey.

"A good riddance," said Oates. "The fool had seen too much and would
have proved but a saarry witness. Now by the mairciful dispensation of
Goad he has ceased to trouble us. Ye know him, Captain Bedloe?"

"A Papistical cur, and white-livered at that," the bravo answered.

"And his boady? It must be praamptly disposed of."

"An easy task. There is the Savoy water-gate and in an hour the tide
will run. He has no friends to inquire aft