And so I came face to face with another smile, behind a spying-glass,--a
smile so cynical and unpleasant withal that my own was smothered. A tall
and thin gentleman, who had come out of the inn without a hat, was
surveying the dispute with a keen delight. He was past the middle age.
His clothes bore that mark which distinguishes his world from the other,
but his features were so striking as to hold my attention unwittingly.

After a while he withdrew his glass, cast one look at me which might have
meant anything, and spoke up.

"Pray, my good Goble, why all this fol-de-rol about admitting a gentleman
to your house?"

I scarce know which was the more astonished, the landlord, John Paul, or
I. Goble bowed at the speaker.

"A gentleman, your honour!" he gasped. "Your honour is joking again.
Surely this trumpery Scotchman in Jews' finery is no gentleman, nor the
longshore lout he has got with him. They may go to the 'Swan.'"

"Jews' finery!" shouted the captain, with his fingers on his sword.

But the stranger held up a hand deprecatingly.

"'Pon my oath, Goble, I gave you credit for more penetration," he
drawled; "you may be right about the Scotchman, but your longshore lout
has had both birth and breeding, or I know nothing."

John Paul, who was in the act of bowing to the speaker, remained
petrified with his hand upon his heart, entirely discomfited. The