eyes that had a trick of shifty dodging, and deep-furrowed about the
mouth and chin with lines that spoke of indecision. It was not of him
that Margery got her firm round chin, or her steadfast eyes that knew
not how to quail, nor aught of anything she owed a father save only her
paternity, you'd say. And when he spoke the thin falsetto voice matched
the weak chin to a hair.

"I? Damme, Sir Francis, I know not why he came--how should I know?" he
quavered. "Appleby Hundred is mine--mine, I tell you! His title was well
hanged on a tree with his damned rebel father!"

A laugh uproarious from the three soldiers greeted his petulant
outburst; after which the baronet enlightened the others.

"As you know, Captain John, Appleby Hundred once belonged to the rebel
Roger Ireton, and Mr. Stair here holds but a confiscator's title. 'Tis
likely the son heard of the war and thought he stood some chance to come
into his own again."

"Oh, aye; sure enough," quoth the elder officer, tilting his bottle
afresh. And then: "Of course he promptly 'listed with the rebels when he
came? Trust Roger Ireton's son for that."

My baronet wagged his head assentingly to this; then clinched the lie in
words.

"Of course; we have his commission. He is on De Kalb's staff, 'detached
for special duty.'"

"A spy!" roared the jester. "And yet you haven't hanged him?"