THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
of France yields precedence only to a rank greater than Majesty. The honor France loses belongs not to Spain, but to the beautiful Barbara Clerke.’”
Sir Henry Heywood caught at a quick breath. “Mistress Clerke! My ward!”
Captain Ferrers looked from Downey to Cornbury, only to see verification written upon their faces. He pushed back his bench from the table, his countenance fairly blazing with anger, and cried, in a choking voice:
“Mornay again! To drag her name into every ordinary and gaming hell in London! Coxcomb!—scoundrel!—upstart that he is! Mornay, always Mornay—”
The candles flickered gayly as Monsieur Mornay entered. His figure and costume were the perfection of studied elegance. The perruque was admirably curled, and the laces and jewels were such that a king might have envied him. A black patch extending along the forehead gave him an odd appearance, and the white brow seemed the more pallid by contrast. His features in repose bore the look of settled melan-
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