o follow. There was a coat of arms on the
plate, but so dim that he could not read it. The one picture in the room
showed an old man in a conventional suit of armour. He did not recognise
the face or remember any like it... He filled himself another bumper of
claret, and followed it with a little brandy. This latter was noble
stuff, by which he would abide. His sense of ease and security returned.
He pushed the papers farther over, sweeping the ring with them, and set
his elbows on the table, a gentleman warm, dry, and content, but much
befogged in the brain.

He raised his eyes to see the far door open and three men enter. The
sight brought him to his feet with a start, and his chair clattered on
the oak boards. He made an attempt at a bow, backing steadily towards
the fireplace and his old coat.

The faces of the new-comers exhibited the most lively surprise. All
three were young, and bore marks of travel, for though they had doffed
their riding coats, they were splashed to the knees with mud and their
unpowdered hair lay damp on their shoulders. One was a very dark man who
might have been a Spaniard but for his blue eyes. The second was a mere
boy with a ruddy face and eyes full of dancing merriment. The third was
tall and red-haired, tanned of countenance and lean as a greyhound.
He wore trews of a tartan which Mr. Lovel, trained in such matters,
recognised as that of the house of Atholl.

Of the three he only recognised the leader, and the recognition sobered
him. This was that Talbot, commonly known from his swarthiness as the
Crow, who was Ormonde's most trusted lieutenant. He had once worked with
him; he knew his fierce temper, his intractable honesty. His bemused
wits turned desperately to concocting a conciliatory tale.

But he seemed to be unrecognised. The three stared at him in wild-eyed
amazement.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" the Highlander stammered.

Mr. Lovel this time brought off his bow. "A stormstayed traveller," he
said, his eyes fawning, "who has stumbled on this princely hospitality.
My name at your honour's service is Gabriel Lovel."

There was a second of dead silence and then the boy laughed. It was
merry laughter and broke in strangely on the tense air of the room.

"Lovel," he cried, and there was an Irish burr in his speech. "Lovel!
And that fool Jobson mistook it for Lovat! I mistrusted the tale,
for Simon is too discreet even in his cups to confess his name in a
changehouse. It