Next came little Mr. Manners, stepping daintily as ever; and then, as the door closed with a bang, I remembered my errand.  They had got halfway to the portico.

“Mr. Manners!” I cried.

He faced about, and his Grace also, and both stared in wellbred surprise.  As I live, Mr. Manners looked into my face, into my very eyes, and gave no sign of recognition.  And what between astonishment and anger, and a contempt that arose within me, I could not speak.

“Give the man a shilling, Manners,” said his Grace; “we can’t stay here forever.”

“Ay, give the man a shilling,” lisped Mr. Manners to the footman.  And they passed into the house, and the door eras shut.

Then I heard Mr. Dix at my elbow, saying in a soft voice:  “Now, my fine gentleman, is there any good reason why you should not ride to Bow Street with me?”

“As there is a God in heaven.  Mr. Dix,” I answered, very low, “if you attempt to lay hands on me, you shall answer for it!  And you shall hear from me yet, at the Star and Garter hotel.”

I spun on my heel and left him, nor did he follow; and a great lump was in my throat and tears welling in my eyes.

What would John Paul say?

CHAPTER XXIV

CASTLE YARD

But I did not go direct to the Star and Garter.  No, I lacked the courage to say to John Paul:  “You have trusted me, and this is how I have rewarded your faith.”  And the thought that Dorothy’s father, of all men, had served me thus, after what I had gone through, filled me with a bitterness I had never before conceived.  And when my brain became clearer I reflected that Mr. Manners had had ample time to learn of my disappearance from Maryland, and that his action had been one of design, and of cold blood.  But I gave to Dorothy or her mother no part in it.  Mr. Manners never had had cause to hate me, and the only reason I could assign was connected with his Grace of Chartersea, which I dismissed as absurd.

A few drops of rain warned me to seek shelter.  I knew not where I was, nor how long I had been walking the streets at a furious pace.  But a huckster told me I was in Chelsea; and kindly directed me back to Pall Mall.  The usual bunch of chairmen was around the hotel entrance, but I noticed a couple of men at the door, of sharp features and unkempt dress, and heard a laugh as I went in.  My head swam as I stumbled up the stairs and fumbled at the knob, when I heard voices raised inside, and the door was suddenly and violently thrown open.  Across the sill stood a big, rough-looking man with his hands on his hips.

“Oho!  Here be the other fine bird a-homing, I’ll warrant,” he cried.

The place was full.  I caught sight of Davenport, the tailor, with a wry face, talking against the noise; of Banks, the man I had hired, resplendent in my livery.  One of the hotel servants was in the corner perspiring over John Paul’s chests, and beside him stood a man disdainfully turning over with his foot the contents, as they were thrown on the floor.  I saw him kick the precious vellum-hole waistcoat across the room in wrath and disgust, and heard him shout above the rest:  “The lot of them would not bring a guinea from any Jew in St. Martin’s Lane!”