"The battle of Salamanca was fought on the 21st of July, 1812," said my
host, with a matter-of-fact air.

"But--why--how?" I stammered, staring at him in supreme surprise. "That is
sixty years since, and you don't look much more than fifty now."

"All the same I am nearly fourscore," said Mr. Fortescue, smiling as if
the compliment pleased him.

"Fourscore, and so hale and strong! I have known men half your age not
half so vigorous and alert. Why, you may live to be a hundred."

"I think I shall, probably longer. Of course barring accidents, and if I
continue to avoid a peril which has been hanging over me for half a
century or so, and from which I have several times escaped only by the
skin of my teeth."

"And what is the peril, Mr. Fortescue?"

"Assassination."

"Assassination!"

"Yes, assassination. I told you a short time ago that I was once hunted by
a pack of hounds. I am hunted now--have been hunted for two
generations--by a family of murderers."

The thought occurred to me--and not for the first time--that Mr. Fortescue
was either mad or a Munchausen, and I looked at him curiously; but neither