“On my honour, sir, it’s less than naught. You may see for yourself I am quite recovered now. I shall not trespass on your hospitality at this hour of night.”
He protested that the night was young yet, but not to all his entreaties would Prudence yield. They walked on together towards Charing Cross, the Honourable Charles still adjuring Prudence at intervals to go home with him. “By gad, sir, these Mohocks become a positive scandal!” he exclaimed. “A gentleman mayn’t walk abroad, damme, without being set upon these days!”
“Mohocks?” Prudence said. “You think they were Mohocks, then?”
“Why, what else? The town’s teeming with ’em. I was set on myself t’other day. Stretched one fellow flat!”
Prudence thought of the words she had caught as she had come up to the embrasure. A rough voice had growled: “This is our man, boys.” She said nothing of this, however, to Mr Belfort, but assented that without doubt the men had been Mohocks, intent on robbery.
“A good thing ’twas I left Devereux’s rooms directly after you,” said Mr Belfort. “But that Burgundy, y’know — demned poor stuff, my boy! There was no staying longer. How a man can get drunk on it beats me. Look at me now! Sober as a judge, Peter! Yet there’s poor Devereux almost under the table already.”
They parted company at Charing Cross, where Mr Belfort saw Prudence solicitously into a chair. She was borne off west to Arlington Street, and set down safely outside my lady’s house.
A light burned still in Robin’s room. Sure, the child would never go to bed until she was come home. She went softly in, and found Robin reading by the light of three candles.
Robin looked up. “My felicitations. You escaped betimes.” His eyes narrowed, and he got up. “Oh? What’s toward, child?” he said sharply, and came across to Prudence’s side.
She laughed. “What, do I look a corpse? I was near enough to it. But there are no bones broken, I believe.”