a tall man to be careful of his movements; it was full of
dark shadows thrown by the two candles in iron sconces on the walls; a
high settle was on either side of the fire in front of which stood the
bow-legged host, his eyes beaming on the rapidly emptying bottles.

A slight sound, a movement, caused the landlord to glance towards the
door. A stranger had entered. He was not of the Grub Street fraternity.
He had too much swagger. His clothes were too fine, despite their
tawdriness, his sword hilt too much in evidence. What could be seen of
his dark face, the upper half of which his slouched hat concealed, was
rather that of a fighter than of a writer. The landlord summed up the
signs of a swashbuckler and approached him deferentially.

"Good evenin', sir. What's your pleasure?"

The stranger cast a rapid glance over the revellers sitting round the
long, narrow table before he replied.

"Half a pint of gin, landlord," said he, in the deep, husky voice of
Captain Jeremy Rofflash, and he strode towards the chimney corner of one
of the settles, whence he could see the noisy party of drinkers and not
be seen himself very well.

The landlord brought the gin in a pewter pot and set it down on a ledge
fixed to the chimney jamb.

"See here, landlord," growled Rofflash, "d'ye know Mr. Jarvis?"

"Sure, sir; 'tis he yonder with the lantern-jawed phizog."

"Aye. Watch your chance when he's not talking to the rest and bid him
look where I'm sitting. There's a shilling ready for you if you don't
blunder."

The landlord nodded and waddled towards the man he had pointed out.

Jeremy Rofflash, it may be remarked, was a born spy and informer. His
blood was tainted with treachery. Ten years before he had been employed
by the Whig Government of George of Hanover to ferret out
evidence--which not infrequently meant manufacturing it--against the
Jacobites. Posing as a Jacobite, Rofflash wormed himself into the
secrets of the conspirators, and he figured as an important witness
against the rebel lords Derwentwater, Nithsdale, Carnwath and Wintoun.

It was nothing for him to serve two masters and to play false to both,
according as it best suited his own pocket. Sally Salisbury and
Archibald Dorrimore were working in two different directions, and the
ingenious Jeremy accommodated both. His scheming in Sally's interest had
turned out to his and to her satisfaction, but not so that on behalf of
Dorrimore. The captain had not reckone