They were three, as I soon discovered by their voices, one of which I thought I recognized.

“It’s a devilish shame!” the first was saying; “not a soul here for the funeral but our four selves—­I say it’s a shame—­a burning shame!”

“That, sir, depends entirely on the point of view,” answered the second, a somewhat aggressive voice, and this it was I seemed to recognize.

“Point of view, sir?  Where, I should like to know, are all those smiling nonentities—­those fawning sycophants who were once so proud of his patronage, who openly modelled themselves upon him, whose highest ambition was to be called a friend of the famous ‘Buck’ Vibart where are they now?”

“Doing the same by the present favorite, as is the nature of their kind,” responded the third; “poor Maurice is already forgotten.”

“The Prince,” said the harsh voice, “the Prince would never have forgiven him for crossing him in the affair of the Lady Sophia Sefton; the day he ran off with her he was as surely dead—­in a social sense—­as he is now in every sense.”

Here the mist settled down upon my brain once more, and I heard nothing but a confused murmur of voices, and it seemed to me that I was back on the road again, hemmed in by those gibbering phantoms that spoke so much, and yet said but one word:  “Murder.”

“Quick—­a candle here—­a candle—­bring a light—­” There came a glare before my smarting eyes, and I struggled up to my feet.

“Why—­I have seen this fellow’s face somewhere—­ah!—­yes, at an inn—­a hang-dog rogue—­I threatened to pull his nose, I remember, and—­by Heaven!—­handcuffs!  He has been roughly handled, too!  Gentlemen, I’ll lay my life the murderer is found—­though how he should come here of all places—­extraordinary.  Sir Richard—­you and I, as magistrates—­duty—­” But the mist was very thick, and the voices grew confused again; only I knew that hands were upon me, that I was led into another room, where were lights that glittered upon the silver, the decanters and glasses of a supper table.

“Yes,” I was saying, slowly and heavily; “yes, I am Peter Smith —­a blacksmith—­who escaped from his gaolers on the Tonbridge Road—­but I am innocent—­before God—­I am innocent.  And now—­do with me as you will—­for I am—­very weary—­”

Sir Richard’s arm was about me, and his voice sounded in my ears, but as though a great way off: 

“Sirs,” said he, “this is my friend—­Sir Peter Vibart.”  There was a moment’s pause, then—­a chair fell with a crash, and there rose a confusion of excited voices which grew suddenly silent, for the door had opened, and on the threshold stood a woman, tall and proud and richly dressed, from the little dusty boot that peeped beneath her habit to the wide-sweeping hat-brim that shaded the high beauty of her face.  And I would have gone to her but that my strength failed me.

“Charmian!”

She started, and, turning, uttered a cry, and ran to me.