so he gave a great shout, and then, recovering himself, burst into a roar
of laughter. He clapped his hands on his knees and fairly swayed with
merriment. Master Freake looked at him with a sedate half-smile, and said,
"How d'ye do, my lord?"

"Very well, thankee!" cried his lordship gaily, too gaily. "Damme! It's
the funniest thing that's happened since Noah came out of the Ark. Come
here, spy! Mean to tell me this is a Jacobite?"

As the spy crept near, Master Freake stood up, wheeled round on him
smartly, and said, "How d'ye do, Turnditch?"

"Stap me!" cried his lordship. "His name's Weir!"

"He will know me better if I call him Turnditch," said Master Freake icily.

He spoke unmistakable truth. I could see the shadow of the gallows fall
across the man's face. What stiffening there was in him oozed out, and he
stood there wriggling in an agony of apprehension, like a worm in a
chicken's beak. Master Freake knew him to the bottom of his muddy soul. My
Lord Tiverton was a man of another mould, but he too was in the hands of
his master. Plain John Freake, citizen of London, had taken a hand in this
game of fate, and had thrown double six.

This noble room had seen the agonizings and rejoicings of a dozen
generations of the sons of men, but nothing to surpass this scene in
living interest. They come back to me now--the line of blue-and-white
troopers, still with levelled carbines; the stolid Welshman, as
indifferent as Snowdon; the dapper nobleman, still polished and lightsome,
no longer play-acting but rather vaguely anxious; the high-minded troubled