‘I have never possessed one,’ said Woodseer, with his natural frankness.  ‘It would have gone long before this for a night’s lodging.’

Sir Meeson heard him, and instantly urged Lord Fleetwood not to think of dismissing his man Francis.  ’I beg it, Fleetwood!  I beg you to take the man.  Her ladyship will receive me badly, ring or no ring, if she hears of your being left alone.  I really can’t present myself.  I shall not go, not go.  I say no.’

‘Stay, then,’ said Fleetwood.

He turned to Woodseer with an air of deference, and requested the privilege of glancing at his notebook again, and scanned it closely at one of the pages.  ‘I believe it true,’ he cried; ’I had a half recollection of it—­I have had some such thought, but never could put it in words.  You have thought deeply.’

‘That is only a surface thought, or common reflection,’ said Woodseer.

Sir Meeson stared at them in turn.  Judging by their talk and the effect produced on the earl, he took Woodseer for a sort of conjuror.

It was his duty to utter a warning.

He drew Fleetwood aside.  A word was whispered, and they broke asunder with a snap.  Francis was called.  His master gave him his keys, and despatched him into the town to purchase a knapsack or bag for the outfit of a jolly beggar.  The prospect delighted Lord Fleetwood.  He sang notes from the deep chest, flaunting like an opera brigand, and contemplating his wretched satellite’s indecision with brimming amusement.

‘Remember, we fight for our money.  I carry mine,’ he said to Woodseer.

‘Wouldn’t it be expedient, Fleetwood . . .’  Sir Meeson suggested a treasurer in the person of himself.

‘Not a florin, Corby!  I should find it all gambled away at Baden.’

’But I am not Abrane, I’m not Abrane!  I never play, I have no mania, none.  It would be prudent, Fleetwood.’

’The slightest bulging of a pocket would show on you, Corby; and they would be at you, they would fall on you and pluck you to have another fling.  I ’d rather my money should go to a knight of the road than feed that dragon’s jaw.  A highwayman seems an honest fellow compared with your honourable corporation of fly-catchers.  I could surrender to him with some satisfaction after a trial of the better man.  I ’ve tried these tables, and couldn’t stir a pulse.  Have you?’

It had to be explained to Woodseer what was meant by trying the tables.  ‘Not I,’ said he, in strong contempt of the queer allurement.

Lord Fleetwood studied him half a minute, as if measuring and discarding a suspicion of the young philosopher’s possible weakness under temptation.