"And what's your name, and what are you?"
"John Slade, fisherman."
St. Just turned his eyes keenly on him and smiled faintly. "And you do a little foreign trade as well, eh? Brandy, cigars, silks and lace?"
John Slade started and scowled at the injured man, who continued with a laugh, "You needn't be alarmed, my friend, the secret of your retreat is safe with me; I've nothing to do with the coastguard. Besides, as you must have discovered, I am a foreigner, a Frenchman, and I know no one in this country. But I have business in London and must be there as soon as possible. How long have I been here?"
"Since the night afore yesterday. You'll soon be all right now, and I'll see you to the coach for London. I daresay you'll be well enough to start to-morrow. But now, Master, couldn't you take something to eat and drink?"
St. Just thought he could. As a fact, he was feeling very hungry; he had had nothing for two days.
A good night's rest made him another man, and, the next morning, he got into John Slade's boat, and the smuggler rowed him to Brighton. The boat was moored, and his companion went ashore with him and carried his bag to the starting place of the London coach. Then they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill—for St. Just had quite forgiven the mistake that had laid him prostrate—and the young Frenchman was soon rattling along the road to London.
As yet, he had formulated no plan of action; he deferred that, until he should have seen the hosier in the Strand. So he hailed a hackney coach and told the driver to take him to the address Mons. de Talleyrand had given.
Fortunately Mr. Perry was in his shop and, on St. Just's putting the question to him about the bees, he gave the expected answer; then he asked his visitor into his parlor at the back of the shop, and inquired in what way he could serve him.
The latter, having been told that he might speak to the hosier without restraint, at once explained his errand, and asked his hearer the best way to set about it.