“Landlord!” exclaimed Wilton, seeing the face of Wicks amongst several others at the door, “be so good as to bring Mr. Arden, the Messenger, here.  Bring him by the collar, if he does not come willingly.  I will be answerable for the consequences.”

The magistrate looked astounded; but the landlord came forward with a grin and a low bow, saying, “The gentleman has mounted his horse, sir, and ridden after those other two gentlemen who went away a quarter of an hour ago; but, Lord bless you, sir,” he added, with a sly look, “he’ll never catch them.  Why, his horse is quite lame.”

“The fact is,” replied Wilton, “this man Arden did not choose to come in here, as he well knew I should certainly send him to London in custody, to answer for his bad conduct this night.—­Sir, I beg to inform you, that I am private secretary to the Earl of Byerdale; and that this young lady, the daughter of the Duke of Gaveston, having been carried off from the terrace near his house by agents, it is supposed, of the late King James II., for the purpose of drawing over her father to support that faction, the Duke, who is pleased to repose some trust in me, authorized me, by this paper under his hand, to search for and deliver the lady, while at the same time the Earl of Byerdale intrusted me with this warrant for the purposes herein mentioned, and put this man Arden, the Messenger, under my direction and control.  At the very first sight of danger the Messenger ran away, and by so doing left me with every chance of my being murdered by a gang of evil-disposed persons in this neighbourhood.  On his return with a large body of constables and some military to the house of a person who is named Plessis, I understand, he refused to obey the orders I gave him, and followed me hither, alleging that one of two gentlemen who had come to my assistance, and to whom I owe my own life and the liberation of this lady, was the well-known personage called Sir George Barkley.  Those gentlemen both departed, as soon as they saw us in safety, and I am ready to swear that neither of them was Sir George Barkley; the person this Messenger mistook for him being a young gentleman of four or five and twenty years of age.”

“Phoo!” cried the magistrate, with a long sort of whistling sound—­“Sir George Barkley is a man of fifty, with a great gash on his cheek.  I remember him very well, when—­”

But then seeming to recollect himself, he paused abruptly, adding, “But pray, who was this young gentleman who so came to your assistance, sir?”

“I never saw him in my life before,” replied Wilton, “and the name he gave himself was Captain Churchill.”

“To be sure, to be sure!” cried the clergyman; “a younger brother of my Lord of Marlborough’s.”

“Some relation of the Marlborough family, I believe,” replied Wilton, dryly.  “However, I do not know the Earl’s brother myself, nor am I aware whether there is any other Captain Churchill or not; but this was a young gentleman, evidently under thirty, and consequently he could not be Sir George Barkley.”