Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectly natural voice, “Why, Anthony, my lad!”
There was a murmur from one or two of the men.
“Silence,” called out the magistrate. “We will finish the other affair first,” and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a moment.—“Now then, do any of you men know this gentleman?”
A pursuivant stepped out.
“Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names—Mr. Chapman and Mr. Wode. He is a popish agent. I saw him in the company of Dr. Storey in Antwerp, four months ago.”
Mr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously.
“Pooh,” he said; and then turned to the man and bowed ironically.
“I congratulate you, my man,” he said, in a tone of bitter triumph. “In April I was in France. Kindly remember this man’s words, Mr. Frankland; they will tell in my favour. For I presume you mean to take me.”
“I will remember them,” said the magistrate.
Mr. Stewart bowed to him; he had completely regained his composure. Then he turned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, who had been watching in a bewildered silence.