“Will you join me, squire?” asked de Chavasse, as he lifted the small tumbler and gazed with marked appreciation at the glistening and transparent liquid.

“Nay, thanks,” replied Boatfield with a laugh, “I care naught for these foreign decoctions.  Another mug, or even two, of buttered ale, good landlord,” he added, turning to Master Mounce.

In the meanwhile petty constable Pyot had stood respectfully at attention ready to relate for the hundredth time, mayhap, all that he knew and all that he meant to know about the mysterious crime.

Sir Marmaduke would of a surety ask many questions, for it was passing strange that he had taken but little outward interest in the matter up to now.

“Well, Pyot,” he now said, beckoning to the man to approach, “tell us what you know.  By Gad, ’tis not often we indulge in a genuine murder in Thanet!  Where was it done?  Not on my land, I hope.”

“The watches found the body on the beach, your Honor,” replied Pyot, “the head was mutilated past all recognition ... the heavy chalk boulders, your Honor ... and a determined maniac methinks, sir, who wanted revenge against a personal enemy....  Else how to account for such a brutal act? ...”

“I suppose,” quoth Sir Marmaduke lightly, as he sipped the brandy, “that the identity of the man has been quite absolutely determined.”

“Aye! aye! your Honor,” rejoined Pyot gravely, “the opinion of all those who have seen the body is that it is that of a foreigner ...  Prince of Orleans he called himself, who has been lodging these past months at this place here!”

And the petty constable gave a quick nod in the direction of the cottage.

“Ah!  I know but little about him,” now said Sir Marmaduke, turning to speak to Squire Boatfield, “although he lived here, on what is my own property, and haunted my park, too ... so I’ve been told.  There was a good deal of talk about him among the wenches in the village.”

“Aye!  I had heard all about that prince,” said Squire Boatfield meditatively, “lodging in this cottage ... ’twas passing strange.”

“He was a curious sort of man, your Honor,” here interposed Pyot.  “We got what information about him we could, seeing that the smith is from home, and that Mistress Lambert, his aunt, I think, is hard of hearing, and gave us many crooked answers.  But she told us that the stranger paid for his lodging regularly, and would arrive at the cottage unawares of an evening and stay part of the night ... then he would go off again at cock-crow, and depart she knew not whither.”

The man paused in his narrative.  Something apparently had caused Sir Marmaduke to turn giddy.

He tugged at his neckbands and his hand fell heavily against the trestle-table.

“Nay! ’tis nothing,” he said with a harsh laugh as Master Mounce with an ejaculation of deep concern ran round to him with a chair, whilst Squire Boatfield quickly put out an arm as if he were afraid that his friend would fall. “’Tis nothing,” he repeated, “the tramp in the cold, then this heady draught....  I am well I assure you.”