“I didn’t know that I had, sir, till the Good Intent had sailed.  I was deceived, but the man who promised me the berth was very friendly, and I didn’t suspect him.”

“It was not Barker, then?”

“No, sir; it was a man I met at Market Drayton.”

“At Market Drayton?” said Clive.  “That’s odd.  What was his name?”

“His name was Diggle, and—­”

“A stranger?  I remember no one of that name,” said Clive.

“I thought he was a stranger, sir; but of late I have begun to suspect he was not such a stranger as he seemed.”

“How did you meet him?”

“Accidentally, sir, the night of your banquet in Market Drayton.”

“Indeed!  ’Tis all vastly curious.  Was he lodging in the town?”

“He came in from Chester that night and lodged at the Four Alls.”

“With that disreputable sot Grinsell!” Clive paused.  “Did he tell you anything about himself?”

“Very little, sir, except that he’d been unlucky.  I think he mentioned once that he was a fellow at a Cambridge college, but he spoke to me most about India.”

As he put his questions Clive leaned forward, and seemed to become more keenly interested with every answer.  He now turned and gave a hard look at the bluff man whom he had called Mr. Merriman.  The rest of the company were silent.

“Do you happen to know whether he went up to the Hall?” asked Clive.

“Sir Willoughby’s?  I met him several times walking in that neighborhood, but I don’t think he went to the Hall.  He did not appear to know Sir Willoughby.—­And yet, sir, I remember now that I heard Diggle and Grinsell talking about the squire the night I first saw them together at the Four Alls.”

“And you were with this—­Diggle, in London, Mr. Burke?”

“Yes, sir.”

Desmond began to feel uncomfortable.  Clive had evidently not recognized him before, and he was hoping that the unfortunate incident in Billiter Street would not be recalled.  Clive’s next words made him wish to sink into the floor.

“Do you remember, Mr. Burke, in London, throwing yourself in the way of a gentleman that was in pursuit of your friend Mr. Diggle, and bringing him to the ground?”

“Yes, sir, I did, and I am sorry for it.”

Desmond did not like the grim tone of Clive’s voice; he wished he would address him as “my lad” instead of “Mr. Burke.”

“That was a bad start, let me say, Mr. Burke—­an uncommonly bad start.”

“Oh come, Mr. Clive!” broke in Mr. Merriman, “say no more about that.  The boy was in bad company:  ’twas not his fault.  In truth, ’twas my own fault:  I am impetuous; the sight of that scoundrel was too much for me.

“I bear you no grudge, my lad, though I had a bump on my head for a week afterwards.  Had you not tripped me I should have run my rapier through the villain, and there would like have been an end of me.”