aiting his reply. He leant forward and spoke
across me to the lackey behind, saying, "Go on, go on."

"What do you mean, my lord?" I cried. He smiled, but did not speak. The
coach began to move; I had to walk to keep my place, soon I should have
to run.

"My lord," I cried, "how could she----?"

My lord took out his snuff-box, and opened it.

"Nay, I cannot tell how," said he, as he carried his thumb to his nose.

"My lord," I cried, running now, "do you know who Cydaria is?"

My lord looked at me, as I ran panting. Soon I should have to give in,
for the horses made merry play down the avenue. He seemed to wait for
the last moment of my endurance, before he answered. Then, waving his
hand at the window, he said, "All London knows." And with that he shut
the window, and I fell back breathless, amazed, and miserably chagrined.
For he had told me nothing of all that I desired to know, and what he
had told me did no more than inflame my curiosity most unbearably. Yet,
if it were true, this mysterious lady, known to all London, had
remembered Simon Dale! A man of seventy would have been moved by such a
thing; what wonder that a boy of twenty-two should run half mad with it?

Strange to say, it seemed to the Vicar's mind no more unlikely and
infinitely more pleasant that the King's favour should be bound up with
the lady we had called Cydaria than that it should be the plain fruit of
my lord's friendly offices. Presently his talk infected me with
something of the same spirit, and we fell to speculating on the identity
of this lady, supposing in our innocence that she must be of very
exalted rank and noble station if indeed all London knew her, and she
had a voice in the appointment of gentlemen to bear His Majesty's
Commission. It was but a step farther to discern for me a most notable
career, wherein the prophecy of Betty Nasroth should find fulfilment and
prove the link that bound together a chain of strange fortune and high
achievement. Thus our evening wore away and with it my vexation. Now I
was all eager to be gone, to set my hand to my work, to try Fate's
promises, and to learn that piece of knowledge which all London had--the
true name of her whom we called Cydaria.

"Still," said the Vicar, falling into a sudden pensiveness as I rose to
take my leave, "there are things above fortune's favour, or a King's, or
a great lady's. To those cling, Simon, for your name's sake and for my
credit, who taught you."

"Tr