head and his vile triumph he looked as
ugly as sin itself. "I knew he would be there. She did not deceive me,
with her door on the latch!"

Pistol, or no pistol, Hunt nearly fell upon him. The owler only
refrained because he became aware of his daughter's presence, and to his
great bewilderment read in her face not horror or misery, but a strange
passionate relief. He turned from her--they were bringing in the
prisoner. It was no surprise to him when Eubank, with a howl of
consternation, stepped back almost into the fire. "You fools!" the
apothecary cried, all his malignity appearing in his face, "that is not
the man! That is not----"

"Mr. Fayle?" said the prisoner coolly. "No, it is not. And yet, Mr.
Eubank, I think you know me. Or, you should know me. You have seen me
often enough."

The apothecary stared, started, drew a deep breath of relief, and was
himself again. "Yes, I know you--Mr. Birkenhead," he said. "I have lost
Fayle, but I have won a thousand guineas. Lads!" he continued, raising
his voice almost to a scream, "we have shot at the pigeon and killed
the crow! We have killed the crow! It is Birkenhead, the Post--the
Jacobite Post! And there is a thousand guineas on his head!"

Hunt gathered himself together. "Mr. Birkenhead," he said, "we are two
to four, but say the word, and----"

"I'll say a word for you presently," the Jacobite answered with a quick
look of acknowledgment, "where we are going. But first, to show Mr.
Eubank that he is more lucky than he thinks, and has caught his pigeon
as well as his crow. Fayle," he continued, raising his voice, "come in!"

A gawky, long-limbed woman stalked in, smiling grimly at Eubank, but
with the tail of his eye on the girl in the doorway. Eubank drew back,
and the colour faded from his cheeks. He breathed hard, and the pistol
in his hand wavered. "Look here," he began. "Let us talk about this."

But the Jacobite raised his hand for silence. "Dewhurst!" he cried.

A tall, swarthy seaman, with a scarred cheek and a knitted nightcap,
stepped briskly in, a cutlass in his hand.

"Fawcus!"

Another entered, who but for the scar might have been his twin.

"Bonaventure! And Mr. Eubank," Birkenhead continued, lowering his voice
and speaking with treacherous civility, "let me warn you not to be too
free with that pistol, for these good fellows will assuredly put you on
the fire if any one is hurt. Is Bonaventure there? Yes. Moyreau? Yes.
Valentin? I am sure th