He leaned back against the wall of the passage.  “And you brought him here by accident? Well, if this don’t beat cock-fighting!”

“But who is this Moll Whiteaway?” I repeated.

The question again seemed to take his breath away.  For answer he could only point to a small brass plate in the lower flap of the door; and, stooping, I read:  Miss Whiteaway, Milliner, Modes and Robes.

“Oh!” said I.  “That accounts for the band-box of flowers.”

“Does it?” he asked.

“She flung them out of window to the packet-men.”

“Which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding—­just a milliner’s usual way of getting rid of her summer stock.  My good young sir, did you ever hear tell of a ‘troacher’?  Nay, spare that ingenuous blush:  Moll is a loose fish, but I mean less than your modesty suspects.  A ‘troacher’ is a kind of female smuggler that disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and Moll Whiteaway is the head of the profession in Falmouth.  Now, our worthy Mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on board the packets; and he began yesterday with the Townshend.  He and the Port Searcher swept the ship, sir.  They dug Portuguese brandy in kegs out of the seamen’s beds and parcels of silk out of the very beams.  They shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain’s breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions.  They netted close on two hundred pounds’ worth of contraband in the fo’c’s’le alone—­”

“Good Heavens!” I interjected.  “And as the riot began he was calling himself short-sighted!”

Captain Bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the Mayor again deploring his defective vision.  He lay in an easy-chair amid an army of band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female figure; and sipped Miss Whiteaway’s brandy while he discoursed in broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father, Nat Fiennes, Mr. Fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way, did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the dents).

“It is a great drawback, Sir John—­a great drawback,” his Worship lamented.  “A man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an eagle; instead of which on all public occasions I have to rely on John Sprott.  My good woman”—­he turned to Miss Whiteaway—­“would you mind taking a glance out of window and telling me what has become of John Sprott?”

“He’s down below under protection of the soldiers,” announced Miss Whiteaway; “and no harm done but his hat lost and his gown split up the back.”