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and none more accusingly than the personage himself; but with a scornful lift of his brows he replied in a manner to tell all who were present that such as he were above mere arrogance. “Why, young man, he comes from a place you doubtless never heard of, keeping as you doubtless do, so close at home: from Little Grimsby.”

Martin glanced at Phil. “The name, it seems, is thine own. Hast ever been at Little Grimsby?”

“Never.”

And with that they forgot Philip Marsham, or at all events treated him as if he had never existed.

“’T is few o’ the clergy ride in their own coaches,” someone said, with an obsequiousness that went far to conciliate the magnificent coachman.

“Aye, very few,”’ he said smiling, “but Dr. Marsham is well connected and a distant relation some years since left him a very comfortable fortune—not to mention that in all England there are few better livings than his. There is no better blood in the country than runs in his veins. You’d be surprised if I was to tell you of families he ’s connected with.”

So the talk ran.

Presently a little boy appeared from the darkness beyond the door and hunting out Martin, touched his shoulder and beckoned. Martin, having long nursed his ill temper, rose. “It is time,” he said, “yea, more than time.” With swagger and toss he elbowed his way out past the liveried coachman; but missing Phil he turned and saw him still sitting on the bench, his eyes fixed on the harness hanging on the opposite wall.

“Come, come,” he called loudly. “Come, make haste! Where are thy wits? Phil, I say!”