He went on to say that the spot had been chosen advisedly, with a view to communication with the opposite coast, where his old connection with the smugglers was likely to be useful in the Jacobite plots.  “As you well know,” he said, “my father had done his utmost to make Whiggery stink in my nostrils, to say nothing of the kindness I have enjoyed from our good Queen; and I was ready to do my utmost in the cause, especially after I had stolen a glimpse of you, and when Charnock, poor fellow, returning from reconnoitring among the loyal, told me that you were still unmarried, and living as a dependent in the Archfields’ house.  Our headquarters were in Romney Marsh, but it was as well to have, as it were, a back door here, and as it has turned out it has been the saving of some of us.”

“Oh, sir! you were not in that wicked plot?”

“Nay; surely you are not turned Whig.”

“But this was assassination.”

“Not at all, if they would have listened to me.  The Dutchman is no bigger than I am.  I could have dropped on him from one of his trees at Hampton Court, or through a window, via presto, and we would have had him off by the river, given him an interview to beg his uncle’s pardon, and despatched him for the benefit of his asthma to the company of the Iron Mask at St. Marguerite; then back again, the King to enjoy his own again, Dr. Woodford, archbishop or bishop of whatever you please, and a lady here present to be Marquise de Pilpignon, or Countess of Havant, whichever she might prefer.  Yes, truly those were the hopes with which I renewed my communications with the contraband trade on this coast, a good deal more numerous since the Dutchman and his wars have raised the duties and driven many good men to holes and corners.

“Ever since last spring, when the Princess Royal died, and thus extinguished the last spark of forbearance in the King’s breast, I have been here, there, and everywhere—­Romney Marsh, Drury Lane, Paris, besides this place and Pilpignon, where I have a snug harbour for the yacht, Ma Belle Annik, as the Breton sailors call her.  The crew are chiefly Breton; it saves gossip; but I have a boat’s crew of our own English folk here, stout fellows, ready for anything by land or sea.”

“The Black Gang,” said Anne faintly.

“Don’t suppose I have meddled in their exploits on the road,” he said, “except where a King’s messenger or a Royal mail was concerned, and that is war, you know, for the cause.  Unluckily my personal charms are not easily disguised, so that I have had to lurk in the background, and only make my private investigations in the guise of my own ghost.”

“Then so it was you saved the dear little Philip?” said Anne.

“The Archfield boy?  I could not see a child sent to his destruction by that villain Sedley, whoever were his father, for he meant mischief if ever man did.  ’Twas superhuman scruple not to hold your peace and let him swing.”