"You will hire a coach, as usual," he said at length, "and take my baggage to—" (He paused, frowning)—"Lewes. You will engage a room at the White Hart and order dinner. I shall wear—apricot and—h'm!"

"Blue, sir?" ventured Jim, with an idea of being helpful.

His master's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"You are a humorist, Salter. Apricot and cream. Cream? Yes, 'tis a pleasing thought—cream. That is all—Jenny!"

The mare turned her head, whinnying as he came towards her.

"Good lass!" He mounted lightly and patted her glossy neck. Then he leaned sideways in the saddle to speak again to Salter, who stood beside him, one hand on the bridle.

"The cloak?"

"Behind you, sir."

"My wig?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pistols?"

"Ready primed, sir."

"Good. I shall be in Lewes in time for dinner—with luck."

"Yes, sir. Ye—ye will have a care?" anxiously.

"Have I not told you?" He straightened in the saddle, touched the mare with his heel, and bestowing a quick smile and a nod on his man, trotted easily away.

CHAPTER II

MY LORD AT THE WHITE HART

"Sir Anthony Ferndale" sat before the dressing-table in his room at the White Hart, idly polishing his nails. A gorgeous silk dressing gown lay over the back of his chair, and, behind him, Jim was attending to his wig, at the same time hovering anxiously over the coat and waistcoat that were waiting to be donned.

Carstares left off polishing his nails, yawned, and leaned back in his chair, a slim, graceful figure in cambric shirt and apricot satin breeches. He studied his cravat for some moments in the mirror, and 

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