“Oh ho!” said Pembroke, “so you too were after it.  Well, the long purse won, as it doth ever.  I secretly gave our wandering wood ranger, ex-galley slave of France, the neat sum of twenty-five pounds for this little shoe.  Poor fellow, he liked ill enough to part with it; but he said, very sensibly, that the twenty-five pounds would take him back to Canada, and once there, he could not only get many such shoes, but see the maid who made this one for him, or, rather, made it for herself.  As for me, the price was cheap.  You could not replace it in all the Exchange for any money.  Moreover, to show my canniness, I’ve won back its cost a score of times this very night.”

He laughingly extended his hand for the moccasin, which Wilson was examining closely.

“’Tis clever made,” said the latter.  “And what a tale the owner of it carried.  If half he says be true, we do ill to bide here in old England.  Let us take ship and follow Monsieur du Mesne.”

“’Twould be a long chase, mayhap,” said Pembroke, reflectively.  Yet each of the men at that little table in the gaming room of the Green Lion coffee-house ceased in his fingering the cards, and gazed upon this product of another world.

Pembroke was first to break the silence, and as he heard a footfall at the door, he called out: 

“Ho, fellow!  Go fetch me another bottle of Spanish, and do not forget this time the brandy and water which I told thee to bring half an hour ago.”

The step came nearer, and as it did not retreat, but entered the room, Pembroke called out again:  “Make haste, man, and go on!”

The footsteps paused, and Pembroke looked up, as one does when a strange presence comes into the room.  He saw, standing near the door, a tall and comely young man, whose carriage betokened him not ill-born.  The stranger advanced and bowed gravely.  “Pardon me, sir,” he said, “but I fear I am awkward in thus intruding.  The man showed me up the stair and bade me enter.  He said that I should find here Sir Arthur Pembroke, upon whom I bear letters from friends of his in the North.”

“Sir,” said Pembroke, rising and advancing, “you are very welcome, and I ask pardon for my unwitting speech.”

“I come at this hour and at this place,” said the newcomer, “for reasons which may seem good a little later.  My name is John Law, of Edinboro’, sir.”

All those present arose.

“Sir,” responded Pembroke, “I am delighted to have your name.  I know of the acquaintance between your father and my own.  These are friends of mine, and I am delighted to name ye to each other.  Mr. Charles Castleton; Mr. Edward Wilson.  We are all here to kill the ancient enemy, Time.  ’Tis an hour of night when one gains an appetite for one thing or another, cards or cold joint.  I know not why we should not have a bit of both?”

“With your permission, I shall be glad to join ye at either,” said John Law.  “I have still the appetite of a traveler—­in faith, rather a better appetite than most travelers may claim, for I swear I’ve had no more to eat the last day and night than could be purchased for a pair of shillings.”