And despite my signals to him he replied:  “In truth, my dear lady, he haunted the place for a sight of you, from the moment he set foot in London.”

Comyn laughed, and I felt the blood rise to my face, and kicked John Paul viciously.  Dolly retained her self-possession.

“Pho!” says she; “for a sight of me!  You seamen are all alike.  For a sight of me!  And had you not strength enough to lift a knocker, sir, —­you who can raise a man from the ground with one hand?”

“’Twas before his tailor had prepared him, madam, and he feared to disgrace you,” the captain gravely continued, and I perceived how futile it were to attempt to stop him.  “And afterward—­”

“And afterward?” repeated Dorothy, leaning forward.

“And afterward he went to Arlington Street with Mr. Dix to seek Mr. Manners, that he might be identified before that gentleman.  He encountered Mr. Manners and his Grace of Something.”

“Chartersea,” put in Comyn, who had been listening eagerly.  “Getting out of a coach,” said the captain.

“When was this?” demanded Dorothy of me, interrupting him.  Her voice was steady, but the colour had left her face.

“About three weeks ago.”

“Please be exact, Richard.”

“Well, if you must,” said I, “the day was Tuesday, and the time about half an hour after two.”

She said nothing for a while, trying to put down an agitation which was beginning to show itself in spite of her effort.  As for me, I was almost wishing myself back in the sponginghouse.

“Are you sure my father saw you?” she asked presently.

“As clearly as you do now, Dolly,” I said.

“But your clothes?  He might have gone by you in such.”

“I pray that he did, Dorothy,” I replied.  But I was wholly convinced that Mr. Manners had recognized me.

“And—­and what did he say?” she asked.

For she had the rare courage that never shrinks from the truth.  I think I have never admired and pitied her as at that moment.

“He said to the footman,” I answered, resolved to go through with it now, “‘Give the man a shilling.’  That was his Grace’s suggestion.”

My Lord uttered something very near an oath.  And she spoke not a word more until I handed her out in Arlington Street.  The rest of us were silent, too, Comyn now and again giving me eloquent glances expressive of what he would say if she were not present; the captain watching her with a furtive praise, and he vowed to me afterward she was never so beautiful as when angry, that he loved her as an avenging Diana.  But I was uneasy, and when I stood alone with her before the house I begged her not to speak to her father of the episode.

“Nay, he must be cleared of such an imputation, Richard,” she answered proudly.  “He may have made mistakes, but I feel sure he would never turn you away when you came to him in trouble—­you, the grandson of his old friend, Lionel Carvel.”