"Not a word of this," he said,
indicating the ring, which he had quickly transferred to his own finger,
turning the jewel so that it could not be observed.

"'Sdeath, you still here?" said Hart, sharply, as his eyes fell upon the
fiddler.

Strings straightened up and puffed with the pomposity and pride of a
landed proprietor. He shook his newly acquired possessions until the
clinking of the gold was plainly audible to the manager.

"Still here, Master Hart, negotiating. When you are pressed for coin,
call on me, Master Hart. I run the Exchequer," he said, patronizingly.
It was humorous to see his air of sweeping condescension toward the tall
and dignified manager of the theatre who easily overtopped him by a
head.

"Gold!" exclaimed Hart, as he observed the glitter of the guineas in the
candle-light. His eyes turned quickly and suspiciously upon the lordly
Buckingham.

There was nothing, however, in his lordship's face to indicate that he
was aware even of the existence of the fiddler or of his gold. He sat by
the table, leaning carelessly upon it, his face filled with an
expression of supreme satisfaction. He had the attitude of one who was
waiting for somebody or something and confidently expected not to be
disappointed.

"Sup with me, Hart," continued Strings, with the air of a boon comrade.
"Sup with me--venison, capons, and--Epsom water."

"Thank you, I am engaged to supper," replied Hart, contemptuously,
brushing his cloak where it had been touched by the fiddler, as if his
fingers had contaminated it.

The insult clearly observable in the manager's tone, however, had no
effect whatever upon Strings. He tossed his head proudly and said
indifferently: "Oh, very well. Strings will sup with Strings. My coach,
my coach, I say. Drive me to my bonnie babes!"

He pushed open the door with a lordly air and passed out; and, for some
seconds, they heard a mingling of repeated demands for the coach and a
strain of music which sounded like "Away dull care; prythee away from
me."

Buckingham had observed the fiddler's tilt with the manager and the
royal exit of the ragged fellow with much amusement. "A merry wag! Who
is that?" he asked, as Strings's voice grew faint in the entry-way.

Hart was strutting actor-fashion before the mirror, arranging his curls
to hang gracefully over his forehead and tilting now and again the big
plumed hat. "A knave of fortune, it seems," he answered coolly and still
suspiciously.