To Will’s coffee-house accordingly they directed their steps, and here, as luck would have it, found the unconscious object of their quest.
My Lord Sayle was in a corner of the long room, his back to the door and surrounded by gentlemen who sipped their various beverages, snuffed or sucked at their long, clay pipes, while drawers hovered silently to and fro, obedient to their commands; thus Sir John and the Captain entered almost unnoticed, and, securing an adjacent table, Sir John ordered a bottle of burgundy.
“Burgundy—O Ged!” demurred the Captain.
“You shan’t drink it, Tom!” murmured Sir John.
My Lord Sayle, as one who had more than once killed “his man,” and was, moreover, reputed to be in high favour at court just at present, was assured of a respectfully attentive audience wheresoever he went.
Behold him, then, the room being oppressively warm, ensconced beside an open window and seated between his inseparable companions, Sir Roland Lingley, slim and pallid, and Major Orme, red and a little corpulent, and surrounded by divers other fine gentlemen who listened with more or less languid interest while he held forth on the heinous crime of smuggling.
“But, my lord,” ventured a mild gentleman in a Ramillie wig, “surely there are worse sins than smuggling?”
“Ha, d’ye think so, sir, d’ye think so?” demanded my lord pettishly. “Then ’tis so much the less to your credit, sir. Damme, sir, how dare ye think so! I say smuggling is a damnable crime and shall be put down with a strong hand, sir! With relentless determination, and, begad, sir, I’m the man to do it. I’ll purge Sussex yet ere I’m done, aye—I will so!”
“But, my lord, I—I happen to know something of Sussex and——”
“And what’s this to me, sir?”