The door was shut, and all once again darkness in the cottage of the kitchen.

Something slithering along the floor caught Kit's ear.

Then he saw that Blob had by the collar the Grenadier he had killed, and with groanings and pantings and strange animal noises, was hauling his victim towards the dark mouth of the cellar.

"Leave him alone," called Kit sternly. "D'you call that a respectable way to treat the dead?" He laid a piece of sacking over the corpse, adding—"That'll do to cover him up till we can bury him properly."

"But Oi don't want un buried," whined Blob. "Oi be goin to keep un agin the fifth o Novambur—guy for Bloub!"

"You're going to do no such thing, you disgusting little beast. You'll get your tuppence, and you don't deserve that."

"Ah," said Blob cunningly, "this un'll be worth a little better'n tuppence surely. You knaw who he be, Maaster Sir?"

"Who then?"

Blob dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper.

"Squoire Nabowlin. Mus. Poiper tall me."

"Who?"

"Squoire Nabowlin," reiterated the boy. "Nabowlin Bounabaardie—the top Frenchie. See the legs on him! red and gold and buttons and all."

II

The Gentleman was sauntering across the grass towards the cottage, his hands behind him.

The Parson brushed aside the mattress, and thrust out, snarling.

"Keep your distance, sir, or take the consequences."

The Gentleman strolled forward.

"Ah, there you are, Padre. I came to have a little chat."

"Stand fast then, and state your business!—This is war, not play- acting. I hate your silly swagger."

"Well, in the first place I thought you might care to know that your man's through."

"Thank you for nothing. Knew that already."

"But you know—there's always a little but in this world—hateful word, isn't it?—but, but, but—he's too late."

"What ye mean?"

"I mean that Nelson reached Dover last night, and sails this afternoon. The Medusa'll be off here at dawn if this breeze holds."

Dover!

The Parson had forgotten Dover. Chatham, the Admiralty, Merton! in his note he had urged Beauchamp to send messengers post-haste to all three; but Dover!

"That's all right," he called calmly. "I've a galloping express half- way there by now, thank ye."

The other shook his head with a grave smile.

"It's sixty miles in a bee-line from Lewes to Dover, and plenty of public-houses on the road. No Englishman could do it under eight hours on a hot day. If your romance-man gets there by midnight, he'll do well—and still be hours too late."

The Parson remained unmoved.

"It makes no odds," he called loftily. "If you want to know, Nelson's not in England."

"Is he not? where is he then?"

"Why, where he ought to be—hammering the Combined Squadron somewhere
St. Vincent way."

"How d'you know?"

"He's my cousin on my father's side. I heard from his mother only— only—"

"By last night's mail!" suggested the Gentleman. "May I ask then why you trouble to send a galloping express to Dover to stop him?"

The Parson's face darkened. He thrust forward.

"And may I ask how you know Nelson got to Dover last night?"

The other shrugged.

"I have agents."

The Parson nodded grimly.

"Yes; I've a list of em."

"Your countrymen, my friends"—with a malicious little bow—"the Friends of Freedom."

The Parson leaned out, black as night.

"Friends of Freedom be d——-d!" he thundered—"bloody traitors!"

The other raised a shocked hand.

"Holy Padre! Reverend Father! Virginibus puerisque, if you please."

The Parson turned to find Kit at his elbow.

"I'm only a deacon," he grumbled. And it's only what you French gentry call a fashion de polly."

"I am not French—or only on my mother's side," replied the other gently.

"Well, Frenchified then—it's all the same, ain't it?—all that bowin and scrapin and humbuggin business—you know what I mean."

"Yes, yes, I know, my polished friend…. And as to these same couleur-de-rose gentry I understand your feelings entirely, and for the very good reason that I share them. And I don't mind telling you in confidence that as to the bulk of them your description is not too highly-coloured."

"And if they're that, what are you, I'd like to know?" shouted the Parson.

"I am an Irishman. I serve my country—I do not sell her."

"And are all Irishmen traitors?"

A gleam came into the other's eyes. He smiled frostily.

"All who are worthy of the name," he said….

"But to return to our sheep. They have served me, these sanguinary gentlemen, so I can't stand by and see them hanged, when I can save em. And to put it shortly—I want that despatch-bag, please!"

He came forward like a child, hand outstretched, and smiling charmingly.

The Parson flung out a finger and volleyed laughter.

"And he thinks he's going to get it! Ask pretty; don't forget to say please; and he shall have everything he wants, he shall, he shall. There's a lambkin! there's a little lovey!" He leaned out again. "And what you going to give us for it?"

"Why, a free pass-out, with all the honours of war."

"Thank you for nothing. Seems to me I can have a free pass-out whenever I like. I've just free-passed out a man. And I'm only a minute or two back myself from a little stroll with a lady."

III

The Gentleman sauntered forward.

"I am sorry to be so importunate," he said gravely, "but I must have those despatches and I mean to have them."

He stopped.

"The position is this: Nelson is mine." He brought down his right fist on his left. "Nothing can save him now—nothing. This time to-morrow, so sure as that sun will rise, he will be dead or on the way to Verdun. That has been arranged."

"How?" thundered the Parson. "How has it been arranged?"

The Gentleman was pacing to and fro before the window; and his eyes were down.

"It's enough for you to know," he said at last, "that I—I have influence with a lady, who—who has influence with Nelson."

"What does he mean?" whispered Kit.

The Parson had turned very white.

He knew that woman, by nature so noble; and he knew something of her history—the history of the shame of man.

"D'you mean to tell me She's going to sell her Nelson to that organ-grinder's monkey from Corsica?" he roared. "Because if you'll tell me that, I'll tell you you're a liar."

The Gentleman still paced before the window.

"I'll tell you nothing of the sort," he said. "She believes herself to be serving her country." He was speaking very slowly, almost mincing his words. "She has—has come into possession of information…."

The man, usually so self-possessed, stuttered and stopped dead.

"And how did she come into possession of that information, I wonder?" asked the Parson, slow and white.

The Gentleman flashed his face up.

"I'll put it in brutal English so that even you can understand. I made a fool of a woman who thought she was making a fool of me."

There was a lengthy silence.

"And they call him the Gentleman!" came the Parson's voice at last— "the Gentleman!"

The other had resumed his pacing.

"He sneaks himself into the confidence of a lady," continued the
Parson quietly. "He conceals his identity—"

Again the other flashed his eyes up.

"I did not!" he shouted, hammering with his hand. "The first words I ever spoke to her in the drawing-room at Merton were to tell her who I was. That night she told Pitt over his port. And Pitt told her—but there!—I needn't go into that…. And when she asked me what brought me to Merton, I answered truthfully—'Love of adventure and the fairest face in Europe.'"

The Parson leaned out.

"I understand you now. You take advantage of that face of yours; you worm yourself into the confidence of a woman, a noble woman; and you—"

The Gentleman blazed appalling eyes up at him.

"And you have not seen my Ireland suffer!"

The Parson quailed before the white blast of the other's anger. It was as though a hail of lightnings had struck him.

"His Ireland! ass!" was the only retort he could think of.

"Nelson then let us put aside," continued the other, cold again. "There remain—you and the despatches. I want the despatches. You want yourselves. Shall we exchange?"

"No, we shan't," snapped the Parson.

"I know your straits," continued the other. "You're short of provisions—"

"Short of provisions!" guffawed the Parson. "Why, step this way, and
I'll show you a boy with the bellyache."

"And short of men," the other continued, quite himself again. "What does your garrison consist of?—one holy padre, one half an old sailor, Monsieur Mooncalf, and Little Chap."

"And what's your own lot?" bellowed the Parson—"one dozen of sweepings of France, one dozen of the picked scum of our country, and one conceited young whipper-snapper, who swaggers about in breeches and boots all day and was never on a horse in his life to my certain knowledge!"

The Gentleman waved his hand.

"Take the consequences then," he said. "A rivederci."

"Take the consequences yourself!" roared the Parson—"you and your river dirties. I'll see your friends hung high as Haman yet."

The other shook his head.

"You won't live to see that, dear man," he said quietly, and turned away.