hnson. Both the gentlemen rose at this
sudden interruption, and the steward advancing to the table, once more
produced the formidable pocket-book, the spectacles, and a letter. He ran
over its direction--"For George Denbigh, Esquire, London, by the hands of
Peter Johnson, with care and speed." After the observance of these
preliminaries, he delivered the missive to its lawful owner, who opened
it, and rapidly perused its contents. Denbigh was much affected with
whatever the latter might be, and kindly took the steward by the hand, as
he thanked him for this renewed instance of the interest he took in him.
If he would tell him where a letter would find him in the morning, he
would send a reply to the one he had received. Peter gave his address, but
appeared unwilling to go, until assured again and again that the answer
would be infallibly sent. Taking a small account-book out of his pocket,
and referring to its contents, the steward said, "Master has with Coutts &
Co. L7,000; in the bank, L5,000. It can be easily done, sir, and never
felt by us." Denbigh smiled in reply, as he assured the steward he would
take proper notice of his master's offers in his own answer. The door
again opened, and the military stranger was admitted to their presence. He
bowed, appeared not a little surprised to find two of his mail-coach
companions there, and handed Denbigh a letter, in quite as formal,
although in a more silent manner than the steward. The soldier was invited
to be seated, and the letter was perused with an evident curiosity on the
part of Denbigh. As soon as the latter ended it, he addressed the stranger
in a language which John rightly judged to be Spanish, and Peter took to
be Greek. For a few minutes the conversation was maintained between them
with great earnestness, his fellow travellers marvelling much at the
garrulity of the soldier however, the stranger soon rose to retire, when
the door thrown open for the fourth time, and a voice cried out,

"Here I am, George, safe and sound--ready to kiss the bridesmaids, if
they will let me--and I can find time--- bless me, Moseley!--old
marling-spike!--general!--whew, where is the coachman and guard?"--it was
Lord Henry Stapleton. The Spaniard bowed again in silence and withdrew,
while Denbigh threw open the door of an adjoining room and excused
himself, as he desired Lord Henry to walk in there for a few minutes.

"Upon my word," cried the heedless sailor, as he complied, "we m