“Understand me, Mr. Lance,” and the Major’s voice rang out firm, the voice of a man accustomed to obedience.  “Three years ago I was in command of Devil’s Drop, a little makeshift fort upon the sands outside Tangier.  In front the Moors lay about us in a semicircle.  Sir, the diameter was the line of the sea at our backs.  We could not retire six yards without wetting our feet, not twenty without drowning.  One night the Moors pushed their trenches up to our palisades; in the dusk of the morning I ordered a sortie.  Nine officers went out with me and three came back, we three.  Of the six we left behind, five fell, by my orders, to be sure, for I led them out; but, by the living God, you killed them.  There’s the pistol that shot my best friend down, an English pistol.  There’s the powder flask which charged the pistol, an English flask filled with English powder.  And who sold the pistol and the powder to the Moors, England’s enemies?  You, an Englishman.  But you have come to the end of your lane to-night.  Turn and turn as you will you have come to the end of it.”

The truth was out now, and Mitchelbourne was chilled with apprehension.  Here were three men very desperately set upon what they considered a mere act of justice.  How was he to dissuade them?  By argument?  They would not listen to it.  By proofs?  He had none to offer them.  By excuses?  Of all unsupported excuses which can match for futility the excuse of mistaken identity?  It springs immediate to the criminal’s lips.  Its mere utterance is almost a conviction.

“You persist in error, Major Chantrell,” he nevertheless began.

“Show him the proof, Bassett,” Chantrell interrupted with a shrug of the shoulders, and Captain Bassett drew from his pocket a folded sheet of paper.

“Nine officers went out,” continued Chantrell, “five were killed, three are here.  The ninth was taken a prisoner into Barbary.  The Moors brought him down to their port of Marmora to interpret.  At Marmora your ship unloaded its stores of powder and guns.  God knows how often it had unloaded the like cargo during these twenty years—­often enough it seems, to give you a fancy for figuring as a gentleman in the county.  But the one occasion of its unloading is enough.  Our brother officer was your interpreter with the Moors, Mr. Lance.  You may very likely know that, but this you do not know, Mr. Lance.  He escaped, he crept into Tangier with this, your bill of lading in his hand,” and Bassett tossed the sheet of paper towards Mitchelbourne.  It fell upon the floor before him but he did not trouble to pick it up.

“Is it Lance’s death that you require?” he asked.

“Yes! yes! yes!” came from each mouth.

“Then already you have your wish.  I do not question one word of your charges against Lance.  I have reason to believe them true.  But I am not Lance.  Lance lies at this moment dead at Great Glemham.  He died this afternoon of cholera.  Here are his letters,” and he laid the letters on the table.  “I rode in with them at once.  You do not believe me, but you can put my words to the test.  Let one of you ride to Great Glemham and satisfy himself.  He will be back before morning.”