ds had acquired an added zest by the probability of its
being a dangerous luxury. He loved dearly to poise himself on the edge
of peril, though of course, like all who do so, he had not the slightest
intention of falling in.

On the evening in question, Betty made no appearance, and Aubrey was let
in by her mistress, a plain-featured middle-aged woman, on whom he had
no temptation to waste his perfumes. He made his way up the stairs to
Winter's door, and his hand was on the latch when he heard Percy's
voice.

"Through by the seventh of February! You'll be nothing of the sort."

"I cry you mercy. I think we shall," answered Catesby.

Aubrey lifted the latch, and entered.

Four gentlemen sat round the fire--Winter and Catesby; Percy, whom
Aubrey knew, and in whose hand was the pipe; and a fourth, a tall, dark,
and rather fine-looking man, with brown hair, auburn beard, and a
moustache the ends of which curled upwards.

"Ha! Mr Louvaine? You are right welcome," said Winter, rising to
greet his young friend, while Percy took his pipe from his lips, and
offered it to the latter. Nobody introduced the stranger, and Aubrey
took but little notice of him, especially as thenceforth he sat in
silence. He might have paid more if he could have known that after
three hundred years had rolled by, and the names of all then known as
eminent men should have faded from common knowledge, the name of that
man should be fresh in the memory of every Englishman, and deeply
interesting to every English boy. He was in the company of Guy Fawkes.

To appear as a nameless stranger, and indeed to appear at all as little
as possible, was Fawkes's policy at this moment. He was just about to
present himself on the stage as John Johnson, "Mr Percy's man," and for
any persons in London to know him by his own name would be a serious
drawback, for it was to a great extent because he was unknown in Town
that he had been selected to play this part. Yet matters were not quite
ready for the assumption of his new character. He therefore sat silent,
and was not introduced.

They smoked, sipped Rhenish wine, and chatted on indifferent subjects,
for an hour or more; discussed the "sleeping preacher," Richard Haydock,
then just rising into notoriety--who professed to deliver his sermons in
his sleep, and was afterwards discovered to be an imposter; the last
benefaction in the parish church, for two poor Irish gentlewomen on
their journey home,