The coach was slowing, taking a wide bend in the road. In his mind's eye he could see the old grey house, anticipating the warmth and the welcome. Wanting to feel a part of it, like one of them. Like a dream.

He touched his leg again. Suppose a dream was all it had been?

Doors opening, horses stamping on cobbles, snorting as men ran to unfasten the harnesses, some one waving, a woman hurrying to throw her arms around the girl who had been so sick. The lawyer's clerk gesturing to the guard, saying something about baggage, but still clinging to his sealed case.

Napier peered up at the inn sign. The Spaniards. Again, like a voice from the past.

The horses were gone, the coach standing abandoned. He saw his midshipman's chest on the cobbles with an inn servant stooping to look at the label.

The guard joined him. His burly companion had already vanished into the taproom.

"End o' the road. For us, it is. "He glanced around. "You being met? It's no place to stand an' freeze!"

Napier felt in his pocket for some coins.

"No. Can I leave my chest here?"

He did not hear the answer. He was trying to think, clearly, coldly. He would walk to the house. He had done it with Luke Jago, the captain's coxswain. The hard man, who had taken him out to Audacity, and shouted his name as if he were enjoying it. "Come aboard to join!"

He felt now for the warrant with its scarlet seal of authority, which the young flag lieutenant had given him as he left the ship at Plymouth two days ago.

"Come along. We haven't got all day!"

Napier turned and saw the foul-tempered passenger beckoning to his daughter. He had remarked loudly on Napier's arrival that it was hardly fitting for a mere midshipman to travel in the same coach. The coachman had been unable to conceal his satisfaction when Napier had showed him the warrant bearing the vice-admiral's seal.

The girl brushed some hair from her forehead and smiled at him.