four are lately come from Tangier."

"Oh, from Tangier," cried Mitchelbourne. The riddle was becoming
clear. That extraordinary siege when a handful of English red-coats
unpaid and ill-fed fought a breached and broken town against countless
hordes for the honour of their King during twenty years, had not yet
become the property of the historian. It was still an actual war
in 1681. Mitchelbourne understood whence came the sunburn on his
antagonists' faces, whence the stains and the worn seams of their
clothes. He advanced to the table and spoke with a greater respect
than he had used.

"Did one of you," he asked, "leave a Moorish pipe behind you at an inn
of Saxmundham?"

"Ah," said the Major with a reproachful glance at Captain Bassett. The
Captain answered with some discomfort:

"Yes. I made that mistake. But what does it matter? You are here none
the less."

"You have with you some of the Moorish tobacco?" continued
Mitchelbourne.

Captain Bassett fetched out of his pocket a little canvas bag, and
handed it to Mitchelbourne, who untied the string about the neck, and
poured some of the contents into the palm of his hand. The tobacco was
a fine, greenish seed.

"I thought as much," said Mitchelbourne, "you expected Mr. Lance