“You can come in, my lord,” she cried. “It is not Colonel Overton.”
At this the curtain was drawn aside, and a man whom I recognised from description to be Sir Richard Danvers himself entered the room. I looked at him with some curiosity. There was little remaining of the grace of manner and personal beauty that in his younger days had made him a companion of the gay and witty Charles II. of that name, as his total unscrupulousness had equally endeared him to the late king. In age he was at this time nearing fifty, and his clean-shaven face bore the traces of a career of dissipation. His cravat was loosened, and I noticed the stain of wine upon his velvet coat.
He came forward with a somewhat shamefaced air.
“Curse me!” he cried, “I am glad of it. It would seem that there is some mistake. I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, for keeping you waiting. ’Tis the fault of the blockhead who admitted you. I took you for a gentleman to whom I lost somewhat heavily at cards last evening. You will understand it is not always convenient to pay. But I do not think that I have your name?”
“I am Captain Cassilis, of the Tangier Horse,” I answered.
He looked at me, frowning; then, with a sudden interest in his heavy eyes:
“Cassilis? Cassilis, the swordsman?” he cried.
I bowed low in acknowledgment. It seemed that my reputation had preceded me.
“If you will remember, my lord,” I continued, “I was charged yesterday with the arrest of the Marquis de Launay, at Cleeve.”
“I did indeed sign a document to that effect,” he replied, “but I was unaware that you were the officer to whom the task was entrusted.”