“Will you see a visitor, Richard?”

“A visitor!” I repeated, with misgiving.  ’Twas not so she had announced Comyn.

“Will you see Mr. Allen?”—­

“Mr. Allen, who was the rector of St. Anne’s?  Mr. Allen in London, and here?”

“Yes.”  Her breath seemed to catch at the word.  “He says he must see you, dear, and will not be denied.  How he discovered you were with us I know not.”

“See him!” I cried.  “And I had but the half of my strength I would fling him downstairs, and into the kennel.  Will you tell him so for me, Dorothy?”

And I raised up in bed, shaken with anger against the man.  In a trice she was holding me, fearfully.

“Richard, Richard, you will open your wound.  I pray you be quiet.”

“And Mr. Allen has the impudence to ask to see me!”

“Listen, Richard.  Your anger makes you forget many things.  Remember that he is a dangerous man, and now that he knows you are in London he holds your liberty, perhaps your life, in his hands.”

It was true.  And not mine alone, but the lives and liberty of others.

“Do you know what he wishes, Dorothy?”

“No, he will not tell us.  But he is greatly excited, and says he must see you at once, for your own good.  For your own good, Richard!”

“I do not trust the villain, but he may come in,” I said, at length.

She gave me the one lingering, anxious look, and opened the door.

Never had I beheld such a change in mortal man as there was in Mr. Allen, my old tutor, and rector of St. Anne’s.  And ’twas a baffling, intangible change.  ’Twas as if the mask bad been torn from his face, for he was now just a plain adventurer that need not have imposed upon a soul.  The coarse wine and coarse food of the lower coffee-houses of London had replaced the rich and abundant fare of Maryland.  The next day was become one of the terrors of his life.  His clothes were of poor stuff, but aimed at the fashion.  And yet—­and yet, as I looked upon him, a something was in his face to puzzle me entirely.  I had seen many stamps of men, but this thing I could not recognize.

He stepped forward with all of his old confidence, and did not regard a farthing my cold stare.

“’Tis like gone days to see you again, Richard,” he cried.  “And I perceive you have as ever fallen into the best of hands.”

“I am Mr. Carvel to my enemies, if they must speak to me at all,” I said.

“But, my dear fellow, I am not your enemy, or I should not be here this day.  And presently I shall prove that same.”  He took snuff.  “But first I must congratulate you on coming alive out of that great battle off Flamborough.  You look as though you had been very near to death, my lad.  A deal nearer than I should care to get.”

What to say to the man!  What to do save to knock him down, and I could not do that.

“There can be no passing the time of day between you and me, Mr. Allen,” I answered hotly.  “You, whose machinations have come as near to ruining me as a man’s can.”