“Ye are not he who came here last under the name of Andrew Wedderburn,” said the girl.
“You must be used to feigned names here,” was the answer. “Do you doubt me?—be satisfied.” With the slightly grandiloquent magnificence that was his unconscious manner, he drew forth the papers from his breast and held them out.
She saw the seal of King James on the topmost. “You will stay the night here?” she said.
He gave a reckless little laugh and seated himself at the table.
“When did the King’s son leave here?”
“This morning.”
“I am to meet him in London. And Mr. Caryl; you have heard from him?”
“He told of your coming.”
“Ah—he also, I am to meet in London.” He leaned back in his chair as if he was weary and stared into the fire with moody eyes.
The girl, Celia Hunt, set about getting food with an air half-awed, half-doubting.