CHAPTER VII

The drawing room of Richard Sheridan's house in Orchard Street was lighted only by a flickering fire on the hearth and the moonlight coming in through an open long window that led to a balcony outside. On this balcony stood Richard Sheridan himself, peering eagerly and anxiously at the street below. Presently he straightened up, turned quickly, and entered the room, closing and curtaining the window behind him. "She comes! I cannot be mistaken!" he murmured to himself; then called, more loudly: "Bates!" The man ser…