“Chut! that’s a strange notion,” he said bluntly; “it is not a good purpose, then, to save life?”
The innkeeper worked his hands nervously.
“I’ve heard strange things since, your worship,” he faltered, his eye on the young nobleman.
“You harbor strange guests,” remarked Spencer sternly, his cold glance transfixing the little man.
“I can’t always know their antecedents, my lord,” said the host, redder than ever, and in an agony of uneasiness.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lady Sunderland, “you look as if you’d seen a ghost. What in the wide world are you hatching now, Spencer?”
“Oh, nothing of importance,” he replied coolly; “the Lion’s Head is turning Jacobite, that’s all.”
“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Lady Sunderland, with pious horror, “I thought ’twas a noted Whig house—and the king still in Newmarket, too.”
“Indeed, madam—your ladyship, I do protest,” put in the landlord.
“Tut, tut!” said Dr. Radcliffe, waving him aside, “we’ll excuse you. A dead Jacobite’s no great matter.”