“Yours is a new face here,” said he.
“It is, my lord,” said I. “I am a Donegal man who has been abroad for four years; yet we have had dealings together before now.”
“Were you at Hamburg or Basle?” said he.
“Neither; but I had the honour of carrying a letter from your lordship to a French deputy in ’93, as well as another, franked by your lordship, for a certain Mr Lestrange in Paris.”
He looked hard at me.
“You are not John Cassidy?” said he.
Then I told him the story of my adventure in the wood near Morlaix, and how I delivered the letters of his dead messenger in Paris.
He clapped me on the back.
“You are a good fellow,” said he, “and I thank you. Little came of my letters; but that was no fault of yours. So you are one of us in Donegal?”
“No, my lord,” said I. “I am here on false pretences, though not wholly of my own accord. I cannot expect you to be troubled with my explanations, but they are at your service if you require them. If not, here I am at your mercy.”