“One moment, sir,” he said, getting in front of me; “there is a little form yet to be gone through.  The haste of gentlemen to leave us is not flattering.”

He glanced slyly at Comyn, and his Lordship laughed a little.  I stepped unsuspectingly into the office.

“Richard!”

I stopped across the threshold as tho’ I had been struck.  The late sunlight filtering through the dirt of the window fell upon the tall figure of a girl and lighted an upturned face, and I saw tears glistening on the long lashes.

It was Dorothy.  Her hands were stretched out in welcome, and then I had them pressed in my own.  And I could only look and look again, for I was dumb with joy.

“Thank God you are alive!” she cried; “alive and well, when we feared you dead.  Oh, Richard, we have been miserable indeed since we had news of your disappearance.”

“This is worth it all, Dolly,” I said, only brokenly.

She dropped her eyes, which had searched me through in wonder and pity, —­those eyes I had so often likened to the deep blue of the sea,—­and her breast rose and fell quickly with I knew not what emotions.  How the mind runs, and the heart runs, at such a time!  Here was the same Dorothy I had known in Maryland, and yet not the same.  For she was a woman now, who had seen the great world, who had refused both titles and estates, —­and perchance accepted them.  She drew her hands from mine.

“And how came you in such a place?” she asked, turning with a shudder.  “Did you not know you had friends in London, sir?”

Not for so much again would I have told her of Mr. Manners’s conduct.  So I stood confused, casting about for a reply with truth in it, when Comyn broke in upon us.

“I’ll warrant you did not look for her here, Richard.  Faith, but you are a lucky dog,” said my Lord, shaking his head in mock dolefulness; “for there is no man in London, in the world, for whom she would descend a flight of steps, save you.  And now she has driven the length of the town when she heard you were in a sponging-house, nor all the dowagers in Mayfair could stop her.”

“Fie, Comyn,” said my lady, blushing and gathering up her skirts; “that tongue of yours had hung you long since had it not been for your peer’s privilege.  Richard and I were brought up as brother and sister, and you know you were full as keen for his rescue as I.”

His Lordship pinched me playfully.

“I vow I would pass a year in the Fleet to have her do as much for me,” said he.

“But where is the gallant seaman who saved you, Richard?” asked Dolly, stamping her foot.

“What,” I exclaimed; “you know the story?”

“Never mind,” said she; “bring him here.”

My conscience smote me, for I had not so much as thought of John Paul since I came into that room.  I found him waiting in the passage, and took him by the hand.

“A lady wishes to know you, captain,” I said.