Chapter IV: Part 4

"Well, promise me you will not fret any more," besought Peggie, caressing her. "Your sweet eyes are all puffed up and you won’t be fit for the masquerade ball if you cry any more."

Prue promised to control herself, and by way of keeping her word threw herself on the floor before the door closed upon her cousin, and flinging her arms out upon the seat of a chair, laid her face upon them and gave way to quieter and more subdued, but not less bitter weeping.

She had not long been thus when the door opened and some one looked in. Thinking that she was being sought for and sure that where she lay she was safely hidden, she kept very still.

"Will you wait in here, sir, until I inquire if her ladyship can see you?" said James, the butler. "What name shall I say?"

"It would be useless to give my name," replied a deep voice; "or stay, you can say I bring tidings from Bleak-moor."

As the door closed, Prue rose to her feet with distended eyes and bristling hair, and faced Robin Freemantle.

He wore a long riding-coat of wine-colored cloth and carried a broad beaver caught up on one side with a plain silver buckle. A small quantity of fine linen ruffle protruded from his vest and the sleeves of his coat, and his left hand rested in a broad black ribbon sling. With his neat leather gaiters and spurred heels, and the plain sword in its black scabbard peeping from beneath the full skirt of his coat, he looked the traveling country-gentleman to the life.

For a minute or more the husband and wife stood gazing upon each other in silence. Gradually the look of terror faded from Prue’s face and was replaced by an expression in which fear and anger contended with relief.

"It is really you?" she gasped—"alive—and free?" Then the recollection of her futile tears and her hours of anguish rushed over her and she stamped her little foot in unmistakable irritation.

"You are angry with me—because I am alive?" he said, recoiling as though she had struck him.

"I have no right to be angry," she said coldly. "On the contrary, I congratulate you."

"_You_ congratulate _me_!" he repeated slowly. "But how about yourself? I am afraid my—resurrection—has put you in an awkward position."

She made no reply.

"Am I to blame for that—?" he began, but she turned upon him swiftly.

"You mean that it is my own fault that you are my husband?" she interrupted, her blue eyes flashing like steel. "If you choose to blame me for that, I have not a word to say in my own defense."

"If I dared, I would bless you for it," he said, in a low voice, "although you, perhaps, were waiting impatiently for news of my death, when I interrupted you?"

Remembering how she had been employed, Prue had no answer ready. She was silent a minute, and then abruptly blurted out, "How did you escape, and why did you come here? Good Heaven, if they should follow you and find you here! Oh, how could you betray me? Sure, I am the most unfortunate woman in the world—!"

"Listen to me; there is nothing for you to be alarmed about," he cried, hurriedly coming to her and seizing her hand. "I am free—reprieved—pardoned. No one will follow me here; no one—" He stopped suddenly, and looked fixedly at her. "What has happened?" he asked, in a tone of deep concern. "You are so pale—your eyes are red and swollen—you have been weeping?"

"I thought you were dead!" she said half-resentfully.

"And you wept because you thought I was dead?" he said incredulously—"You were sorry for _me_?" He stood gazing at her, lost in an amazement so profound that it seemed like a reproach.

She drew away her hand.

"I should be sorry for any poor soul condemned to die," she said, with an effort at indifference.

"When last I saw her," he said doubtfully, as if reasoning out a strange problem against which his reason contended, "she was fresh and smiling, and prinked out like a princess for her marriage with a highwayman. To-day she is pale and sad," his eye ran over her somber figure, "and all in black—for my sake—"

"You run on too fast!" Prue interrupted petulantly. "Can I not wear a black dress without putting on mourning for your sake? Methinks I’ll have to wear it for my own! Never, surely, was a woman so caught in her own trap!" She cast her eyes round, as though for visible means of escape. Suddenly a thought of horror glanced into her mind.

"Did you come here to claim me?" she gasped, sinking into a chair, pallid with fear.

"You need not fear me, I have no such design upon you," he said, regarding her with pitying tenderness. He was sorely wounded, though more for her sake than his own. "Can you not understand that I would rather perish by the most cruel tortures than give you one moment’s pain? Oh! rather than see that look of fear and hatred upon your face, I would I were now hanging upon the gallows! At least, you would pity me there, and if not, I should be none the worse off for your scorn. I am free, it is true, but an exile, and unless I leave these shores within eight days, an outlaw. In a week, then, should I be still alive, I shall be dead in law and you will be free from me for ever."

She listened attentively while he was speaking, and her face lost its tense look of terror. Once or twice she glanced furtively at him, noting the power and grace of his tall form, his easy, self-confident bearing and the manly frankness of his strong, swarthy face—more attractive than mere beauty to a woman so essentially feminine as Prudence. She was not afraid of him now, but she was extremely angry with fate, and at the moment he represented fate in its most inexorable form, so she wanted to be very angry with him. Yet she could not reproach him, for the harder she struck at him, the more she would wound her own pride.

"It is all so terrible," she said, sighing wearily. Then the door was flung open, and Peggie darted in with the _News_ sheet in her hand.

"Prue, Prue," she cried, flinging her arms round her cousin without observing that she was not alone. "He is not dead—he has been pardoned and is out of prison. Oh! my poor, dear Prue, to think you were all night breaking your heart for nothing—"

"Hush, hush, Peggie!" Prue was scarlet to the roots of her hair, and with both her hands over Peggie’s mouth, tried to stifle her voice.

"Mercy!" shrieked Peggie, suddenly discovering Robin. "How did you get here? What did you come for?"

"For no evil purpose, my good Mistress Peggie," he replied good-humoredly. "I came as any other visitor and requested a few words in private with Lady Prudence Brooke. By good fortune, I found her here alone, and will now proceed to disclose the object of my visit, which is simply to ask her to take charge of this small packet for me, until I send a messenger for it."

The packet was a compact one, about the size of an ordinary letter, and scarcely thicker, carefully stitched in a piece of white silk, and secured by a seal without any device.

Robin held it out to Prue, but she made no movement to take it.

"Oh! don’t be afraid that I would ask you to do anything dangerous," he went on earnestly. "If it concerned myself, I would not dare to trouble you, but this is a sacred trust, which I hold far above my life, and if I were rearrested, which is quite possible, I might not be able to rid myself of it in time to prevent a great disaster. It was for this reason that I took the unwarrantable liberty of calling upon the Viscountess Brooke. This packet concerns the life and fortune of many friends of hers, but no one would think of looking for it in the keeping of the Duchess of Marlborough’s favorite."

"Friends of mine?" she exclaimed incredulously. "Then who are you?"

"A poor soldier of fortune," he replied, bowing low as though introducing himself, "who has for a moment crossed your path, and in a few days will return to his natural obscurity and trouble you no more. All he asks is forgiveness for having so signally failed in keeping his part of the marriage contract."

"It is not that," she interrupted, thoroughly abashed, though not less angry than before. "_I_ should, perhaps, be the one to ask pardon for forcing a marriage upon you which must be very irksome now; for, sure, you must be even more embarrassed to find yourself saddled with a wife than I with a husband. Yet, believe me, I am not so bad as I seem. Peggie knows I did not wish you harm, but oh! I wish I had never seen you. Why did you attack us on Bleakmoor, and why, oh! why did you let yourself be caught and put in prison—by Sir Geoffrey, of all men! Even the devil could not have put such an idea in my head, about a highwayman I had never seen or heard of—"

Poor Robin turned so pale while Prue poured out these lamentations, that Peggie took compassion on him. "Out upon you, Cousin, for a railing shrew! If you must needs blame somebody, let it be me, for if I had not persuaded you to run away from Yorkshire, Captain Freemantle would not have kissed—I mean waylaid you—and if I had refused to carry your message to Newgate, he would have been spared a scolding wife, and God he knows, his state would have been the more gracious—if I had not meddled in things I had better have left alone."

"Well, Peggie, I forgive you; and you too, Sir Highwayman. The only person I can not pardon is Prudence Brooke, who never looks the length of her nose before she jumps over a precipice," said Prue. "Give me your packet," she held out her hand, without raising her eyes, "and tell me how I can serve you; but do not trust me too far; you can see for yourself what an empty-headed little fool I am."

"If you knew how you hurt me by blaming yourself, you would refrain," said Robin, in a low voice. "Believe me, death would be welcome, if it would make you as kind to me again as you were when I was condemned to die. But a higher law than man’s law forbids us to take our own life or even throw it away recklessly; yet do not despair, the outlaw walks blindfold through a worldful of executioners."

"You wrong me in speaking as though—as though I were one of them," she replied, with a touch of disdain. "What do you wish me to do with your packet?"

"To keep it safely until my messenger calls for it, and to be alone when you give it to him. He will carry no credentials," Robin added, "and will merely inquire if you have anything for The Captain. You can surrender your charge to him without fear. Accept my profoundest thanks for this favor, and my humblest apologies for having intruded so long. Farewell, ladies."

Once more he bowed ceremoniously and was gone.

*CHAPTER XII*

*THE PRICE OF A BIRTHRIGHT*

Robin set out at a rapid pace in the direction of the city, but as he was passing through a crowded street, a crippled beggar with a patch over one eye stopped him, and with a piteous whine, implored his charity.

Tossing him a coin, Robin went on his way, but the beggar, quite agile for so dilapidated a creature, kept close behind him, pouring out a stream of petitions and lamentations.

"What’s sixpence to a noble lord like your honor? Make it a shilling, brave Captain, to help me out of the country. There’s a warrant out for me, and divil take me if I know what’s the charge, but its something political—hanging and quartering at the very least. Thank your honor kindly, and may your enemies always get the worst of it. Ah! but Lunnon’s a bad town, and Linc’n’s Inn’s the very place to ambush a man and take him after the lawyers have got everything out of him. Divil take me if ever I’d give a thing to a lawyer that I might want myself; they’d take your life for six-and-eightpence, and make a bargain with Ould Scratch for your soul—-"

"That will do, my good fellow," said Robin, flashing a quick glance at him. "You need not follow me any farther, you are only wasting what is doubtless valuable time."

The beggar mumbled an excuse, and turned to beg from the nearest passer-by. And Robin pursued his way in a very thoughtful mood.

"Another warrant out," he murmured. "I ought to have thought of that when they appointed this morning to finish the business instead of settling it all yesterday. Steve was right. These hounds never meant to give me a chance."

By this time he was in the Strand, and turning up a paved court behind St. Martin’s Church, knocked at a door, on which the name of Matthew Double, Attorney-at-Law, appeared on a brass plate.

The door was quickly opened and two men came out, who had been waiting for him. One of these, though scarcely older than Robin, had the strained look of hard work and high living that distinguished the professional man of that day. This was Mr. Matthew Double, and the other, in shabby black, carrying a mighty blue-bag, could never have been intended by nature for anything but a lawyer’s clerk.

"Aha! here’s our man, punctual to the minute," cried Double. "Few men would be so prompt to throw away a great inheritance, Captain."

"My word is passed," said Robin. "Did you doubt that I would keep it?"

"Not I; have I not just given you abundant proof of confidence? Still, I hate to see the chances of such a splendid law-suit thrown away; literally flung to the dogs. Dogs, too, who, if I am not mistaken, will turn and rend you when they have drawn your teeth and cut your claws."

"_When_ they have," replied Robin. "By the way, can you lend me a cloak; a long and ample one?"

"This is somewhat the worse for wear," said Double, indicating one that hung in the hall, "but if you want it for a disguise it is rather conspicuous."

"All the better for both reasons," replied Robin, throwing over his shoulders a military-looking cloak of dark green cloth, a good deal frayed, and lined with stained and faded red. With it, he assumed a swaggering step, and with his beaver cocked at a defiant angle, made a striking contrast to the smugly clad lawyer and his weazened satellite.

"I’m ready now," he cried, and the trio started, keeping to the least frequented side of a street parallel with the Strand.

"My good Captain," Mr. Double remonstrated, after going a very short distance, "moderate your stride, I pray, to that of a man a foot shorter than yourself; or, better still, let me call a coach."

"I’d rather walk, if it is all the same to you," Robin replied. "A man who has taken all his exercise for two or three weeks in the courtyard of Newgate, feels the need of stretching his legs when he gets outside."

"True, but _I_ haven’t been in Newgate for three weeks, and am, besides, of too portly a figure to enjoy violent exercise. Samuel, stop the first empty coach we meet. Truly, Captain, thou’rt a queer fellow; there are not many of your profession I’d venture to let out of my sight for twelve hours when I was under bonds to surrender him at a certain time, and he had so many good reasons for leaving me in the lurch."

Robin laughed. "Why, it would ill suit me to leave London with my affairs but half-settled," he said; "after to-day your responsibility will be at an end, and whether I decide to stay here and challenge the hangman, or accept my fate and leave the country, depends on matters you wot not of, and will concern no one but myself."

"’Tis a thousand pities," observed Double regretfully, "that you did not unravel the mystery of your birth until there was a price upon your head. There’s enough in your claim to have made a pretty case. A ve-ry pret-ty case. Even now—"

"Even now," interrupted Robin, "I have bought my life at the price of my birthright, and I’ll pay the price if I get what I bargained for. But not unless. Oh! I’m no sheep to give my wool first, and then go quietly to the shambles."

"They will scarcely attempt to do anything while you are in England—but if you are going to—say America—I would advise you to give your address in—let us say Paris."

A peculiar smile curved Robin’s mouth, but not mirthfully.

"Truly, I had thought of the colonies," he said reflectively. "Perchance, the government will give me a grant of land in some swamp or wilderness, where I can work off my superfluous energies fighting the Indians or the Spaniards."

"There is a coach, Master Double," interposed the meek voice of the clerk; "would you wish me to hire it?"

"What, within a stone’s throw of Lincoln’s Inn? Your conversation has beguiled me, Captain, but it has also made me thirsty. We have a few minutes to spare, and I would gladly crack a bottle to the successful ending of our business."

They turned into a quiet coffee-house, and Robin ordered a bottle of Burgundy. While it was being fetched from the cellar, he obtained a sheet of paper from Samuel’s blue-bag and wrote a brief letter, in which he inclosed two small documents, sealed the packet with great care, and carefully addressed it

"To Mistress Larkyn,
"In care of Mine Hostess of
"The Fox and Grapes."

Mine Hostess, a plump but not uncomely dame, with a merry eye, sat in her cosy bar, surrounded by quaint flagons and other emblems of her hospitable calling. She returned a cheerful answer to Robin’s greeting, and inquired his pleasure.

"You have a kindly face, and I’ll be sworn a heart to match, fair Goddess of the Grape," said Robin. "Will you help two hapless lovers, separated by cruel fate?"

"That depends on what I am to help them to," she retorted. "Mine’s a respectable house, and I’d rather have dealings with lawyers than lovers."

"I want but a trifling service from you, though ’tis a vast favor to me," said Robin. "Will you take charge of this letter, and by and by give it to the serving-man of Mistress Larkyn, whose name is writ upon it?"

"Oh! if that’s all," she said, extending a hand that was plump and shapely, if not over-clean. Robin seized the hand and touched it gallantly with his lips, before surrendering the letter to its clasp. After that, although she called him an "impudent varlet," and made as though to box his ears, he might have asked a much greater favor without danger of rebuff.

When they went out again, Robin cast the green cloak about him, and strode along with an air that made more than one peaceable citizen give him the footway all to himself. As they entered Lincoln’s Inn Square, this became still more marked, and in front of one of the finest houses, he stopped and looked round with an insolent swagger that greatly impressed a group of men loitering under a tree near by.

Double could not quite conceal his dissatisfaction, and pulling his client by the sleeve, whispered that the men looked like constables in plain clothes, and that they could hardly fail to recognize him when he came out, if, as seemed probable, they were waiting there for him.

"Let them stare their fill," said Robin. "I wish them to become thoroughly acquainted with Robin Freemantle’s appearance." And he walked slowly up the steps into the house.

In an up-stairs room, Lord Beachcombe and his lawyer awaited them. Robin left his swashbuckling manners in the anteroom, where Samuel was relieved of his bag and left to the congenial society of two or three clerks.

Lord Beachcombe returned Robin’s courteous greeting with a haughty movement that was scarcely a salute, the two lawyers met with friendly formality, tape-tied papers were produced, and the conference began.

"I understood," said the earl, addressing his attorney, "that the person who calls himself Robert Gregory de Cliffe would be present to-day."

"Have patience, my Lord, he will be here in good time," interposed Mr. Double. "Have you examined the attested copies, Mr. Perry?"

"I have, and to avoid waste of time, I am prepared to admit that they appear to contain interesting family matters, highly interesting. Not that they would be of much legal value if you brought the case before the courts, but enough to cause some annoyance to my client. We have shown that we consider it worth examining into the affair, by obtaining the pardon of this"—he glanced at Robin—"this gentleman."

"And also by taking the precaution of having a warrant ready for my arrest on another charge," said Robin, quietly but incisively.

Mr. Perry glanced at Lord Beachcombe, and their eyes met with the same inquiry, "How can he know?"

"Had you kept faith with me," said Robin, bending his stern gaze upon Beachcombe, "this matter could have been settled in a few minutes. As it is, I have decided not to put the two most important documents in your hands until I am in a place of safety."

"Traitor!" exclaimed Beachcombe, striking the table with his clenched fist. "I knew he would devise some means to balk me!"

"If you talk of traitors, did you not purpose to get everything you wanted from me, and then put my head back in the noose?" demanded Robin. "Such a cat-and-mouse game is not so easy to play with a man who has carried his life in his hand through every kind of danger—even to the gallows’-foot—even through treachery, though that is less common among gentlemen of the road than some other kinds of gentlemen. In exchange for my life, I will give you, as I promised, the original letters that passed between your father and his first wife, the original documents proving the identity of both parties, and the _copies_ of the marriage certificate and the death certificate that prove _your_ mother’s marriage a fraud."

"Oh! this villain will drive me mad!" screamed Lord Beachcombe. "Let me go, Perry; must I kill you to get at him?"

"Be calm, my Lord, I beg you," urged the lawyer, very red in the face from his efforts to restrain his client; "this matter can be arranged without violence, if you will leave it to me. Mr.—a—Captain—a—Freebooter, pray address any remarks to me. You will only impede the negotiation by provoking Lord Beachcombe."

"Here are the original letters and documents," said Mr. Double, advancing to the table, "we will go over them together." The lawyers went to work together, comparing, arguing and quibbling, as though the whole matter had not been settled in advance.

Robin, meantime, strolled to the window, where he observed one of the loitering men in conversation with a furtive man in black, with a pen stuck in his rusty wig. He stealthily pointed Robin out when he appeared at the window, and then darted back to the house like a rat into its hole.

"These letters appear genuine," said Mr. Perry finally, "but they are valueless to us without the two certificates."

"They are worth as much to you as your pledge of safety is to me," returned Robin. "Why should you expect to feel safe from me, while I am still in danger from you? That was not the compact. The hour that I set my foot on a foreign shore in safety, I will cut the last thread that binds me to the past, but those two papers will never be yours, Lord Beachcombe, until it is out of your power to injure me. I have given my word, and I will keep it. My title in exchange for my life; your legitimacy in exchange for my safety."

"I knew it—I felt it!" cried Beachcombe. "This fellow himself is the arch-impostor."

"Impostor!" said Robin, with a contemptuous laugh, as he stood up and pointed to the earl. "Nature has cast us in the same mold; God be praised that her work is only skin-deep. Double, you have the late earl’s picture in that bag; pull it out, and let us see on which of his sons he printed off the best likeness of himself."

Mr. Double drew forth a roll of canvas, that bore evidence of having been hastily cut from the frame.

"My father’s picture!" cried Beachcombe, recognizing it with amazement. "How came it in your possession?"

"It fell into my hands," said Robin dryly, "when I was lately in the North Country. I thought it might be useful, so I brought it away with me."

"You mean, I suppose, that you stole it from Beachcombe Castle," snapped the earl.

"How could I steal my own? Beachcombe Castle is entailed upon the eldest son, and I inherited it from my father, as the son just born to you will doubtless inherit it from you if nothing untoward happens to me. You ought to pray heartily for my welfare, my Lord, until I am safely landed in—America. Still, I am not dependent upon the picture of a dead man for proofs of identity. I can bring twenty living witnesses to prove that I am the son of Mrs. Vincent, whose marriage to Captain Gregory de Cliffe I can prove by documents and other valuable evidence."

"You will give up the two certificates if Lord Beachcombe pledges his word that you will be allowed to leave England unmolested, will you not?" inquired Mr. Perry insinuatingly.

"I will not," replied Robin firmly.

"Well, then—I urge this matter because my lord will have a long period of suspense to endure before he receives those documents, and without impugning your good faith, it is possible they might fall into the wrong hands after all—will you give them up if Lord Beachcombe gives you a written guarantee that you will be safe, so far as he can protect you?"

"I do not value his written guarantee one farthing," said Robin contemptuously. "Given an hour’s start, I am ready to take my chance of escape from any lawyer or traitor of you all. But I’ve a reason for wishing to remain in London for the next few days, and I’ll not give up the one thing that enables me to do it in safety."

Beachcombe sprang to his feet. "I have stood this insolence long enough!" he exclaimed. "You—an outlaw, a convicted robber, dare to spurn my word!—refuse to accept _my_ written promise! Pray, what will satisfy you?"

"Oh! if you wish to offer me satisfaction, ’tis quickly settled," cried Robin. "To cross swords with your lordship will give me the utmost pleasure, and let him who draws the first blood dictate the terms of truce."

Beachcombe sneered, but he was not a coward, and his fingers almost involuntarily wandered to his sword-hilt.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried the lawyer. "This is no time or place for fighting; besides, if there is anything in your story, Captain—Freebooter—the curse of Cain would be on the one who shed the other’s blood."

"Will the one who hires somebody else to shed the other’s blood, escape the curse of Cain?" sternly inquired Robin. "If we can not settle this business like gentlemen, let us get it over as quickly as possible. It will not be difficult, I dare say, to find some better occasion for a meeting."

In a great hurry, Mr. Perry read over a legal document, renouncing on the part of "the person claiming to be Robert Gregory de Cliffe and his descendants for ever," all titles, estates entailed or otherwise, and other belongings appertaining to the Beachcombe family in all its ramifications, in consideration of one thousand pounds over and above all expenses of his transportation to a foreign land, or any place outside of the British Isles, that he might select for his future abode. The above to be paid to him on signing this deed, and to constitute a full satisfaction for every claim, past, present and future.

Robin listened with scant patience to the monotonous repetition of legal terms by which every contingency was forestalled and provided for. Then he requested Mr. Double to peruse it, in case there might be snares or hidden meanings in it. Two clerks were called in to witness the bold signature of Robert Gregory de Cliffe, and finally, Mr. Perry counted out one thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, as compensation for Robin’s claim to an inheritance worth twenty thousand a year, two hundred more for his expenses in leaving the country, and certain sums to Mr. Double for his services. Lord Beachcombe showed very little interest in this part of the transaction, but sat biting his nails and fingering his sword-hilt.

Mr. Perry drew Mr. Double aside, and made one last attempt to convince him that it would be greatly to the interest of all parties if he could persuade his client to surrender the two documents of whose value he held so exaggerated an estimate. Meantime, Robin strolled up to the window, arranging his beaver with great nonchalance, and throwing the end of the cloak over his shoulder, so as to display the red lining.

He observed that the loitering men had drawn together, and numbered about half-a-score, armed with stout bludgeons and still more deadly weapons. Near them, under the trees, a ragged urchin walked Lord Beachcombe’s horse slowly up and down, hopeful of a bounteous douceur from the noble patron who had kept him so long waiting.

"Now, Captain," said Mr. Double, "I am at your service."

Robin walked to the door, and removing his beaver, swept so low a bow, that he dropped it on the floor.

"Farewell, Mr. Perry,—you will hear from me—from foreign parts. My Lord Beachcombe—adieu."

The lawyer, who had already assumed an air of preoccupation with other matters, returned the bow with ceremonious frostiness. Lord Beachcombe did not even turn his head. Consequently, neither of them saw Robin kick his own hat out of the way and help himself to one that lay on a chair near the door.

"Give me five minutes start," he whispered to Double, as he quickly disengaged himself from the green cloak and threw it into a dark corner of the stairway. When he emerged from the front door, a dignified gentleman in a plum-colored riding-coat and black velvet cavalier hat with a long, drooping ostrich feather, he looked as little as possible like the roystering blade who had been seen a few minutes before at the upper window. He signed to the boy with the horse, and mounting without haste, threw him a shilling and beckoned to the chief of the posse of constables.

"You had better bring your men on this side of the street," he said imperiously; "don’t give the fellow time to get away or you will never catch him again. And, mind—dead or alive!"

The man knuckled his hat obsequiously. "Yes, m’ Lud," he said, with something the air of one bulldog being egged on to attack another. "Them’s my orders."

Robin gave him a curt word, and rode out through the gateway leading into Chancery Lane. When he was out of sight, he gave rein to his horse, and taking to the network of narrow lanes that lay between the Strand and the river, made off with the utmost speed toward Westminster.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE SEALED PACKET*

Mr. Double did not hurry after his client, but gave him a good ten minutes’ start, while he made Samuel search the blue-bag for some imaginary papers, and then, bidding him shoulder his hated burden, went forth, much reassured by the absence of commotion in the Square.

The posse had collected outside the house, and eyed the lawyer and his clerk suspiciously. There was a moment of expectation as they recognized the companions of their quarry, but Double and his satellite were not molested, and at a short distance they separated, and Samuel pursued his westward way alone. He did not go far, but leaving his bag in charge of a friendly law-stationer, scurried back to Lincoln’s Inn, and slipping through the constables, ran up-stairs and knocked timidly at the door of Mr. Perry’s private sanctum.

"What do you want here, fellow?" demanded Perry, opening the door and discovering the little, cringing, shabby figure shrinking into the shadow. "This is not the clerk’s office."

"Could I—can I—speak a word with the—the lord?" stammered Samuel.

Mr. Perry looked very searchingly at him for a minute or so. Then he relaxed a little and made room for him to pass into the room, which he did, smoothing his flaxen wig over his forehead with his moist palm, and evidently in a desperately uneasy frame of mind.

"Do you want to speak to Me?" demanded Lord Beachcombe, in a haughty voice, that sounded so terrible to the clerk, that he could hardly stammer out, "Y—yes."

"And what have you to say?" inquired Mr. Perry, in a more encouraging tone. "Speak out, man, don’t be frightened; nobody will hurt you."

"Ah! but he would, if he knew," quavered Samuel, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"You mean Mr. Double? I suppose you want to tell us something he is concealing from us, eh? Well, we will protect you from him," said Mr. Perry magnanimously.

"’Tis not so much him I’m afraid of as the captain," whispered Samuel, glancing from side to side, as though he expected to see him lurking somewhere about. Then he approached Lord Beachcombe on tiptoe. "What will you give me if I get you those certificates?"

"Damnation!" cried Beachcombe, starting up, black with fury; "are my private affairs known to every quill-driver in the town?"

Samuel turned livid with terror. "I only know where they are," he whimpered; "I don’t know anything about them."

"Well, where are they?" demanded Beachcombe threateningly.

A glint of cunning sparkled in Samuel’s eye. "It wouldn’t be any use for me to tell your lordship where they are. No one can get at them but me, and as I shall be suspected, it’s worth a good deal for the risk I run—if the certificates are any use to your lordship."

"How do you know what certificates these are, if you say you don’t know anything about them?" interposed Mr. Perry.

"Because I heard the captain tell Mr. Double that he could afford to let Lord Beachcombe have everything else, so long as he kept the two certificates back. So he put them where nobody knows but himself and Double and me. And he’ll have them out if I don’t hurry and get there first."

"You need not be uneasy about that," said Beachcombe, with a grin of malicious joy. "Captain Freemantle is on his way to Newgate Prison by now, and if those—papers—find their way into my possession, I think it is safe to say that he will never come out except to make the journey to Tyburn."

"On his way to Newgate?" cried the little clerk, rubbing his hands with glee. "Then, if we can agree on the price, your lordship can have them in an hour."

"If you bring them to me—without reading them—in an hour, I will give you ten guineas," said Lord Beachcombe magnificently.

"Ten guineas!" echoed Samuel, with a falling countenance. "They can not be so very important, after all, if that’s all they’re worth."

"How much did you expect?" demanded Beachcombe, who hated parting with his money, and was still writhing under the agony of having had to disburse so considerable a sum already over this affair.

"Considering the risk, I think I ought to have a hundred pounds," pleaded Samuel, trembling at his own audacity.

"A hundred devils!" growled Beachcombe; "do you think I am made of money?"

"It’s well worth it, my Lord," urged Samuel. "You don’t know the risk I run, even if the captain is in jail. And why wouldn’t he get out? He’s been there before and cheated the hangman; he’s as artful as a fox, and has more friends than you and I know of."

Beachcombe reflected a while. "Well, bring the documents to my house and you shall have the hundred pounds. But if you ever betray the slightest knowledge of them, it will be worse for you than if the captain, as you call him, escaped from prison and came after you with all his friends."

"They’re in a sealed packet, my Lord, and if I break the seal you can keep your money," said Samuel, growing bolder, as a confederacy in dishonor brought the haughty peer nearer to his level. Beachcombe signified his acceptance of the compact and walked over to the window, while Mr. Perry gave Samuel instructions how to make sure of the packet falling into no other than the right hands.

"God’s death!" Beachcombe suddenly exclaimed, in so strange a voice, that the others hurried to the window and looked anxiously out to see what had befallen. The street was perfectly quiet. A couple of barristers, with their gowns tucked up, stood talking and laughing, a street vendor shouted the praises of his wares, a slatternly woman, with a baby in her arms and another clinging to her skirt, lounged under the trees opposite, and the group of constables, still expectant, chewed straws and spat them out in the gutter, with the utter absence of hurry so frequently observed in men whose time is owned and paid for by the government. Nothing else was in sight.

"What are those men waiting for?" roared Beachcombe. "Is that scoundrel hiding in this house? Call them in, Perry, and make them search every corner. By Heaven! if you have let him slip through your fingers—"

"Do you mean the captain?" asked the trembling clerk. "He went out half an hour ago, just before me and Mr. Double."

"And no one stopped him? He passed through the constables unchallenged? It is collusion; they shall hang for it. Give me my hat, Perry—"

Samuel flew to obey, and after a brief search, emerged from beneath a table with a somewhat weather-beaten beaver, turned up with a silver buckle.

Beachcombe dashed it from his hand. "That is not mine!" he shouted; "that is the one that fellow wore when he came in. He has left it behind and taken mine; he has used it as a disguise, and those idiots have been taken in by it—" He flung out of the room, and the next minute was heard furiously cursing and berating the crestfallen constables, who, taking him for their long-awaited prey, sprang upon him as soon as he appeared, and but for the speedy interference of Mr. Perry, would have handled him roughly.

The men fell back in confusion as the situation dawned upon them. This the real lord? Then who was the haughty and self-important personage who had ridden away from them so coolly after issuing orders with such an air of authority?

"You shall sweat for this!" cried Beachcombe. "Where is my horse?"

No one seemed able to answer this question. The men glanced from one to another, and the mysterious crowd that springs up from the roadside when there is any excitement, began to collect. Some one suggested that a gentleman in a black hat and feather had been seen riding out of the Square, on a fine chestnut horse, and a murmur from the crowd confirmed the statement.

By this time, Lord Beachcombe had become speechless with rage. He signed to a passing chair, and getting in bareheaded, pulled the curtains close, and departed without a valedictory greeting.

After a visit to Bow Street which gave promise of a warm quarter of an hour to the constables on their return, Beachcombe hurried to his house, overlooking St. James’ Park, to await Samuel’s visit, and concoct plans by which Robin should not only be arrested, but brought to an ignominious and lingering death. Torture was supposed to have been abolished in those days, but treason was still punishable by drawing and quartering, and while the country was still astir with Jacobite plots, the charge of treason might easily be fastened on any man who could not readily account for his comings and goings.

The day passed slowly, for Lord Beachcombe, shut up in his study, gave orders that no visitor should be admitted except the lawyer’s clerk. Once possessor of the proofs—if proofs they were—of the shadow upon his birth, he could set his heel without fear upon the throat of this miscreant who claimed to be his brother. His brother—! his _elder_ brother—! The shrill cry of the baby-heir smote upon his ear, and goaded him to such a madness of impotent fury that if Samuel could have seen him then and known the cause of the furrow on his brow and the blood upon his bitten lip, he might have made his own terms and become rich for life.

In the afternoon, a groom came to say that his lordship’s horse had been brought to the stable by a ragged boy, who had made off before he could be questioned.

"What condition was he in? Had he been ridden fast or far?" Lord Beachcombe inquired eagerly.

"Hadn’t turned a hair, my Lord," was the reply; "might ’a’ been for a canter round the Park."

Beachcombe went to the stable himself to make inspection, but could discover no mark or sign to enlighten the most sharpsighted. "Oh! if you could speak!" he muttered, as he caressed the glossy coat and deer-like head of his favorite. "If you could tell me where you have been these three hours!"

But there was nothing to be learned; not so much as could be shown by a muddy fetlock. If the horse had been out of town, he had been carefully groomed on his return and every trace of travel removed. His master returned to the house, more morose and vengeful than ever, to while away the hours that slowly passed until it was time to dress for the great entertainment at Marlborough House.

When he descended from his wife’s apartments, where he had gone to display himself in his masquerade dress, he was certainly a magnificent and picturesque figure. His costume, of the period of Charles II., was of white satin, profusely trimmed with exquisite lace, and adorned with dazzling orders and jewels. A wig of long curls softened the harsh outline of his face, and a skilful touch of rouge relieved his swarthy pallor and lent a brilliancy to his dark eyes. His resemblance to Robin was remarkable enough then to have struck the most unobservant.

Over his arm he carried a voluminous domino of scarlet silk, and a mask to match dangled from his jeweled fingers.

He was stepping into his carriage, when a little black figure darted in front of him, and Samuel, bowing to the very ground before this gorgeous apparition, besought a word with him.

"Leave him alone," cried Beachcombe, as two or three serving-men stepped forward to sweep this insect from their master’s path. "Have you anything important to say to me?" he eagerly inquired.

"Most important, your worship—I mean your Lordship," replied Samuel. "I’ve got it; only just now, though, and I’ve run every step of the way," and he showed a corner of the letter hidden in his breast.

"Give it to me," said Beachcombe, in a low, concentrated voice, and held out his hand for it. But Samuel hung back.

"My Lord—my Lord—" he stammered, clutching the packet like a drowning man grasping a straw, "will you give me my hundred pounds?"

"What, now; before I see the papers? Besides, I’ve not so much about me," exclaimed Beachcombe. "Why, you imp of the devil, are you afraid to trust me? Here, take my purse and give me that packet. I must have it _now_, do you hear? And come to me to-morrow for your hundred guineas."

And before Samuel could make up his mind what to do, he found himself standing alone with a silken purse, full of golden guineas, in his hand, and the precious packet being whirled away from him in the earl’s chariot.

Lord Beachcombe, with the packet tightly clutched in his hand, gave way to a reverie so pleasant and absorbing that he did not notice a slight additional jar in the jolting of the carriage over the ill-paved street. The cause of the jar was the sudden accession of two outside passengers; one on the box beside the coachman, and the other beside the lackey behind. Each of these functionaries, at the same instant, felt the cold contact of a pistol against his ear, and before they could make any outcry, the carriage was going in a different direction.

A touch of the whip sent the horses forward at breakneck speed. "Keep quiet and you are safe," said the stranger on the box, and in a moment he slipped over the coachman’s head a bag that served both to gag and blindfold him. The same operation was performed simultaneously upon the footman. Very soon, they turned sharply under an archway, and a heavy gate was slammed behind them.

Leaving the coachman on the box, his captor got off and opened the carriage door.

"Descend here, Lord Beachcombe," he said, holding up a lantern, which revealed a tall man in a mask and behind him an open door.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" demanded Beachcombe, fumbling at his sword. The masked man, with very little ceremony, hauled him out of the carriage, and disregarding a strenuous resistance, conducted him into a small room, barely furnished and dimly lighted. He then saw that his assailant was almost as richly dressed as himself, and wore a jeweled star and other decorations of great splendor.

"What am I brought here for?" he asked, in a more subdued tone, for as his fear of robbery subsided in these surroundings, the fact that he had many and bitter enemies rose up before him.

"No harm unless you bring it upon yourself," replied the other. "At worst, an hour or two’s detention and solitude and the loan of your invitation to the duchess’ masquerade."

"Your voice sounds familiar to me," said Lord Beachcombe. "Will you not remove your mask, now that we are alone?" The other hesitated. "Is it worth while to keep up this mystery, Captain Freemantle? You see I recognize you."

"Since you know me, it is not worth while," replied Robin, unmasking. As he did so, Beachcombe whipped out his sword and rushed upon him. Robin had no time to arm himself, but dodging the onslaught with the agility of a cat, closed upon his assailant with a clever wrestling trick that threw him upon his back half-stunned, and before he could recover, had his hands securely tied behind his back with his gold-fringed sash.

"You _would_ have it!" said Robin. "Now I can—" his eye fell upon a packet that had fallen from Beachcombe’s hand, with the superscription upward:

"To Mistress Larkyn,
"In care of Mine Hostess of
"The Fox and Grapes."

He picked it up and turned it over, examining the unbroken seals, and glancing from time to time at his captive.

"So you found a traitor in the camp," he said, at last. "Let him beware—but, tush! I know who it is; it can be no other than Samuel. I need not interfere with him; he will find his own way to the gallows soon enough. I’m afraid I shall have to search you, my friend. You may as well take it quietly; you know I’m an expert at discovering hidden treasure."

Lord Beachcombe, however, would not submit quietly, so Robin bound him securely to a chair and instituted a rigorous search, which revealed nothing except the emblazoned note of invitation to the ball. So, warning his prisoner that any outcry would lead to rough treatment from those who were left in charge of him, Robin withdrew, taking with him the packet and the invitation, and also Beachcombe’s sword and the lamp, and leaving him to darkness and reflection.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A PAIR OF GLOVES*

When Robin Freemantle left Prue, she ran to the mirror and critically examined her reflection in it.

"What a fright I look!" she exclaimed, "with my hair plastered down and my nose red and swollen. Peggie, I should not be surprised if that man were as disappointed with his bargain as I am with mine."

"You don’t look much like yourself," Peggie admitted frankly. "But even as you are, you must be a great deal prettier than the sort of women a highwayman would be used to."

"Why, Peggie, do you think—do you suppose Robin has women-thieves for friends? Pick-pockets, perhaps—or Gipsies! Yet he looks like a gentleman. Highwaymen are sometimes brave and chivalrous—one hears of their doing generous things—they are not like common malefactors—"

"They get hanged, all the same," said Peggie unthinkingly.

"Oh! Peggie, you wicked, cruel creature; how dare you say such things!" cried Prue indignantly. "Robin hanged! Never, never! I would rather go to the queen and implore a pardon for him on my knees. Peggie, you saw him yourself. He is handsome, is he not, and dignified? He made me feel very much ashamed of myself; yet I hate him! I would I had never set eyes on him! Do you suppose he despises me, Peggie?"

"I shouldn’t think he would have the impudence!" exclaimed Peggie. "A common adventurer, if no worse."

"Adventurer, ’tis true, but which of us is not? Am I not an adventuress, Peggie? Aye, and not so very honest a one either. Say he will rob my Lord Bishop of his wig and my Lord Tomnoddy of his purse; what better do I when I buy what I can not pay for, and marry a man condemned to be hanged in order to cheat my creditors. Oh! my dear Peggie, there are many fine folk with their noses in the air, who can not glance into a mirror without seeing the reflection of an adventurer."

"Not a doubt of it," said Peggie philosophically. "but most people, when they look in a mirror, see nothing there but what they want to see."

"Well, what I see is just the reverse of that," said Prue, casting a dissatisfied glance at her own reflection, as she hurried away to rid herself of her somber dress and release her curls from their unaccustomed bonds. This was hardly accomplished to her satisfaction, when Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert arrived, in a state of great excitement.

"Good morning, fair ladies," he cried, saluting them with less ceremony than usual. "No need to ask whether you have seen this morning’s _Courant_."

"Why not?" inquired Prue innocently.

"Because you look too happy and unconcerned to have heard the disastrous news," he said, with a portentous air. "I grieve to be a harbinger of misfortune."

"You alarm us," cried Prue. "What has happened? Speak!"

"Calm yourself, dearest Prudence, and remember that _I_ will not suffer any harm to come to you." Sir Geoffrey lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper, "The highwayman you wot of has escaped!"

"Is that all?" said Prue, with a shrug; "I thought you had news for us. We knew that an hour ago."

"You knew it? How? Has the villain dared—"

"How did we know it?" Peggie interrupted quickly, to prevent a retort from her cousin. "Why, the same way you did," and she displayed the printed sheet that, adorned with a rude cut of a gallows, gave a minute account of the morning’s executions, adding that the queen’s clemency had been extended to Robin Freemantle, through the influence of powerful friends in _certain quarters_, and that he had left Newgate with _great secrecy_ late Sunday evening.

Sir Geoffrey was greatly vexed at having his surprise discounted. "I’m glad to find you taking it so unconcernedly," he observed, looking anything but glad. "I feared that you would be crushed by such a calamity."

"Did you, indeed, think us bloodthirsty enough to regret the saving of a fellow-creature’s life?" said Prue, with grave reproof. "I hoped that you had a better opinion of our humanity."

"Humanity," echoed the baronet, with ill-dissembled irritation. "Such angelic sentiments well become the cruel beauty whose path is strewn with bleeding hearts. But has my dear Prudence no pity to spare for the unhappy swain, condemned to worse than death by Robin, the highwayman’s, unexpected good luck?"

"On the contrary," laughed Prue, "she congratulates you on your escape; believe me, a far greater piece of luck than Robin’s."

"Do not jest, dear one, I implore you," said Sir Geoffrey seriously. "You certainly have not considered the position this miscarriage of justice has placed you in. Let me lay before you the consequences—"