my lord--your Lordship has them forepart behind, if I
may suggest--"

"Damn the braces!" swore the old gentleman. "Where is he? Hi,
Tylney!" as he caught sight of the Secretary. "Where are we to go?
My room, I suppose?"

"The fire is out there, my lord. . . . 'Tis past three in the
morning. But after sending word to awake you, I hunted round and by
good luck found a plenty of promising embers in the Board Room grate.
On top of these I've piled what remained of my own fire, and Dobson
has set a lamp there--"

"You've been devilish quick, Tylney. Dressed like a buck you are,
too!"

"Your Lordship's wig," suggested the valet.

"Damn the wig!" Lord Barham snatched it and attempted to stick it on
top of his night-cap, damned the night-cap, and, plucking it off,
flung it to the man.

"I happened to be sitting up late, my lord, over the _Aeolus_
papers," said Mr. Secretary Tylney.

"Ha?" Then, to the valet, "The dressing-gown there! Don't fumble!
. . . So this is Captain--"

"Lieutenant, sir: Lapenotiere, commanding the _Pickle_ schooner."

The Lieutenant saluted.

"From the Fleet, my lord--off Cadiz; or rather, off Cape Trafalgaro."

He drew the sealed dispatch from an inner breast-pocket and handed it
to the First Lord.

"Here, step into the Board Room. . . . Where the devil are my
spectacles?" he demanded of the valet, who had sprung forward to hold
open the door.

Evidently the Board Room had been but a few hours ago the scene of a
large dinner-party. Glasses, dessert-plates, dishes of fruit,
decanters empty and half empty, cumbered the great mahogany table
as dead and wounded, guns and tumbrils, might a battlefield.
Chairs stood askew; crumpled napkins lay as they had been dropped or
tossed, some on the floor, others across the table between the
dishes.

"Looks cosy, eh?" commented the First Lord. "Maggs, set a screen
around the fire, and look about for a decanter and some clean
glasses."

He drew a chair close to the reviving fire, and glanced at the cover
of the dispatch before breaking its seal.

"Nelson's handwriting?" he asked. It was plain that his old eyes,
unaided by spectacles, saw the superscription only as a blur.

"No, my lord: Admiral Collingwood's," said Lieutenant Lapenotiere,
inclining his head.

Old Lord Barham looked up sharply. His wig set awry, he made a
ridiculous figure in his hastily donned garments. Yet he did not
lack dignity.

"Why Collingwood?" he asked