apprehension. Here were three men very desperately set upon what they
considered a mere act of justice. How was he to dissuade them? By
argument? They would not listen to it. By proofs? He had none to offer
them. By excuses? Of all unsupported excuses which can match for
futility the excuse of mistaken identity? It springs immediate to the
criminal's lips. Its mere utterance is almost a conviction.

"You persist in error, Major Chantrell," he nevertheless began.

"Show him the proof, Bassett," Chantrell interrupted with a shrug of
the shoulders, and Captain Bassett drew from his pocket a folded sheet
of paper.

"Nine officers went out," continued Chantrell, "five were killed,
three are here. The ninth was taken a prisoner into Barbary. The Moors
brought him down to their port of Marmora to interpret. At Marmora
your ship unloaded its stores of powder and guns. God knows how often
it had unloaded the like cargo during these twenty years--often enough
it seems, to give you a fancy for figuring as a gentleman in the
county. But the one occasion of its unloading is enough. Our brother
officer was your interpreter with the Moors, Mr. Lance. You may very
likely know that, but this you do not know, Mr. Lance. He escaped, he
crept into Tangier with this, your bill of lading in his hand," and
Bassett tossed the sheet of paper towards Mitchelbourne. It fell upon
the floor before him but he did not trouble to pick it up.

"Is it Lance's death that you require?" he asked.

"Yes! yes! yes!" came from each mouth.