A closed carriage and pair of horses were standing in front of the
house, and Royson recognized the coachman. It was that same Spong who
had groveled in the mud of Buckingham Palace Road nine hours ago. And
the man knew him again, for he raised his whip in a deferential salute.

"Not much damage done this morning?" cried Dick.

"No, sir. I drove 'em home afterwards, broken pole an' all," said
Spong.

"That's not the same pair, is it?"

"No, sir. This lot is theayter, the bays is park."

So Mr. Hiram Fenshawe, whoever he was, owned the yacht, and ran at
least two fine equipages from his town house. He must be a wealthy man.
Was he the father of that patrician maid whose gratitude had not stood
the strain of Royson's gruffness? Or, it might be, her brother, seeing
that he was associated with von Kerber in some unusual enterprise? What
was it? he wondered. "There may be fighting," said von Kerber. Dick was
glad of that. He had taken a solemn vow to his dying mother that he
would not become a soldier, and the dear lady died happy in the belief
that she had snatched her son from the war-dragon which had bereft her
of a husband. The vow lay heavy on the boy's heart daring many a year,
for he was a born man-at-arms, but he had kept it, and meant to keep
it, though not exactly according to the tenets of William Penn.
Somehow, his mother's beautiful face, wanly exquisite in that unearthly
light which foreshadows the merging of time into eternity, rose before
him now as he passed from the aristocratic dimness of Prince's Gate