“Did one of you,” he asked, “leave a Moorish pipe behind you at an inn of Saxmundham?”

“Ah,” said the Major with a reproachful glance at Captain Bassett.  The Captain answered with some discomfort: 

“Yes.  I made that mistake.  But what does it matter?  You are here none the less.”

“You have with you some of the Moorish tobacco?” continued Mitchelbourne.

Captain Bassett fetched out of his pocket a little canvas bag, and handed it to Mitchelbourne, who untied the string about the neck, and poured some of the contents into the palm of his hand.  The tobacco was a fine, greenish seed.

“I thought as much,” said Mitchelbourne, “you expected Mr. Lance to-night.  It is Mr. Lance whom you thought to misdirect to this solitary house.  Indeed Mr. Lance spoke of such a place in this neighbourhood, and had a mind to buy it.”

Captain Bassett suddenly raised his hand to his mouth, not so quickly, however, but Mitchelbourne saw the grim, amused smile upon his lips.  “It is Mr. Lance for whom you now mistake me,” he said abruptly.

The young man at the door uttered a short, contemptuous laugh, Major Chantrell only smiled.

“I am aware,” said he, “that we meet for the first time to-night, but you presume upon that fact too far.  What have you to say to this?” And dragging a big and battered pistol from his pocket, he tossed it upon the table, and folded his arms in the best transpontine manner.

“And to this?” said Captain Bassett.  He laid a worn leather powder flask beside the pistol, and tapped upon the table triumphantly.

Mr. Mitchelbourne recognised clearly that villainy was somehow checkmated by these proceedings and virtue restored, but how he could not for the life of him determine.  He took up the pistol.

“It appears to have seen some honourable service,” said he.  This casual remark had a most startling effect upon his auditors.  It was the spark to the gun-powder of their passions.  Their affectations vanished in a trice.

“Service, yes, but honourable!  Use that lie again, Mr. Lance, and I will ram the butt of it down your throat!” cried Major Chantrell.  He leaned forward over the table in a blaze of fury.  Yet his face did no more than match the faces of his comrades.

Mitchelbourne began to understand.  These simple soldier-men had endeavoured to conduct their proceedings with great dignity and a judicial calmness; they had mapped out for themselves certain parts which they were to play as upon a stage; they were to be three stern imposing figures of justice; and so they had become simply absurd and ridiculous.  Now, however, that passion had the upper hand of them, Mitchelbourne saw at once that he stood in deadly peril.  These were men.