“The Old Swan is likely to forget you, Baron Ned,” she answered, withdrawing her hand, “if you don’t come to see us oftener.”

“Ah, Betty, you’re a mercenary bit of flesh and blood.  Always looking out for customers,” I returned, shaking my head.

“Yes,” she replied, laughing softly.  “And—­and very sorry when certain customers come so seldom.”

Had she spoken glibly, her words would have meant nothing, but there was a hesitancy, a pretty fluttering in her manner which pleased me, so I was emboldened to say:—­

“I hope I am one of the ‘certain customers,’ Betty.”

Again she laughed softly, as she answered, “Yes, Baron Ned, the certain one.”

“Do you mean, Betty, that I am the ‘certain one’ for the Old Swan or for Betty?” I asked.

She was standing near me, and I again caught her hand, but it was not a part of Betty’s programme to be questioned too closely, so she withdrew her hand, saying, “I must go.”

On former occasions I had put forth what I considered adroit efforts to steal small favors from the girl, for, as already intimated, I considered her merely a barmaid; but I had failed, and the conviction was dawning on my mind that either she was not an ordinary barmaid or that I was the wrong man.  The first assumption would make me all the more eager, but the second would deter any self-respecting man from further pursuit.  My fears inclined me to accept the second, and resulted in a dim sort of jealousy of the right man, who, I suspected, was Hamilton.

When Betty started to leave me, I caught her skirt to detain her, and said:  “When George Hamilton used to come here, I was jealous of him, and feared that he might be the ‘certain customer.’  But I am glad that he has left England.”

The girl blushed as she answered, “No, no, Baron Ned, there is no other ‘certain customer.’” But she checked herself, evidently having said more than she intended, and continued hurriedly:  “But Master Hamilton has not left England.  He is now in the Old Swan.  He asked me to say nothing of his presence in London, but I know he would want me to tell you.”

“Yes, yes, of course he would, Betty.  Where is he?” I asked.

“Upstairs in bed,” she answered.

“Is he sick?” I asked, rising.

“No and yes,” she replied.  “He is suffering from his wounds, and the surgeon says the fever is mounting rapidly to his head.”

“His wounds?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, lots of them,” she answered.  “But I hope none of them are serious, save for the loss of blood.”

“Wounds?  Blood?  Tell me, Betty, tell me!  Has he been in trouble?” I asked, deeply concerned.