“And why do you think so?”
“An inward conviction, my lord. So you will not tell me who he is?”
“Have I not told you I know of no such person as Count L'Estrange? You ought to believe me. Oh, here it comes.”
This last was addressed to a great drop of rain, which splashed heavily on his upturned face, followed by another and another in quick succession.
“The storm is upon us,” said the earl, sitting up and wrapping his cloak closer around him, “and I am for Whitehall. Shall we land you, Ormiston, or take you there, too?”
“I must land,” said Ormiston. “I have a pressing engagement for the next half-hour. Here it is, in a perfect deluge; the fires will be out in five minutes.”
The barge touched the stairs, and Ormiston sprang out, with “Good-night” to the earl. The rain was rushing along, now, in torrents, and he ran upstairs and darted into an archway of the bridge, to seek the shelter. Some one else had come there before him, in search of the same thing; for he saw two dark figures standing within it as he entered.
“A sudden storm,” was Ormiston's salutation, “and a furious one. There go the fires—hiss and splutter. I knew how it would be.”
“Then Saul and Mr. Ormiston are among the prophets?”
Ormiston had heard that voice before; it was associated in his mind with a slouched hat and shadowy cloak; and by the fast-fading flicker of the firelight, he saw that both were here. The speaker was Count L'Estrange; the figure beside him, slender and boyish, was unknown.