-haired peer was so keen to try a hazard of new
fortunes for the sake of the wife in the North.

"Where may you be taking me?" I asked presently, as we hurried through
Piccadilly.

"If you ask no questions----" he began dryly.

"----You'll tell me no lies. Very good. Odd's my life, I'm not caring! Any
direction is good enough for me--unless it leads to Tyburn. But I warn you
that I hold myself unpledged."

"I shall remember."

I was in the gayest spirits imaginable. The task I had set myself of
thwarting Volney and the present uncertainty of my position had combined
to lend a new zest to life. I felt the wine of youth bubble in my veins,
and I was ready for whatever fortune had in store.

Shortly we arrived at one of those streets of unimpeachable respectability
that may be duplicated a hundred times in London. Its characteristics are
monotony and dull mediocrity; a dead sameness makes all the houses appear
alike. Before one of these we stopped.

Lord Balmerino knocked, A man came to the door and thrust out a head
suspiciously. There was a short whispered colloquy between him and the
Scotch lord, after which he beckoned me to enter. For an instant I hung
back.

"What are you afraid of, man?" asked Balmerino roughly.

I answered to the spur and pressed forward at once. He led the way along a
dark passage and down a flight of stone steps into a cellar fitted up as a
drinking room. There was another low-toned consultation before we were
admitted. I surmised that Balmerino stood sponsor for me, and though I was
a little disturbed at my equivocal position, yet I was strangely glad to
be where I was. For here was a promise of adventure to stimulate a jaded
appetite. I assured myself that at least I should not suffer dulness.

There were in the room a scant dozen of men, and as I ran them over with
my eye the best I could say for their quality in life was that they had
not troubled the tailor of late. Most of them were threadbare at elbow and
would have looked the better of a good dinner. There were two or three
exceptions, but for the most part these broken gentlemen bore the marks of
recklessness and dissipation. Two I knew: the O'Sullivan that had assisted
at the plucking of a certain pigeon on the previous night, and Mr. James
Brown, alias Mac-something or other, of the supple sword and the Highland
slogan.

Along with another Irishman named Anthony Creagh the fellow O'Sullivan
rushed up to my Lord, eyes snapp