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“Then tell Long John from me that he must get some other man to do the job; I am already engaged and cannot go.”

“This is madness,” said Scrivener; “you are the only man among us who can go. How can you pretend to be one of us and yet shirk duty in this way?”

“You must get someone else,” repeated Rowton. “Ah! here comes lunch; you can lunch with me, after all, if you please, Scrivener; I can recommend this round of beef. Samson, bring in some ale.”

The man withdrew.

“You’ll have to go,” pursued Scrivener, as he followed his host to the table.

“I do not intend to; I have another engagement.”

“But no one else speaks Spanish; you are the only one among us who has the slightest smattering of the tongue. You alone can do the work.”

Adrian drew the great joint of beef towards him.

“I am sorry to disoblige,” he said, as he cut huge slices from the joint and piled them on his guest’s plate, “but the fact is, I am going to be married next week.”

“Great Heaven!” cried Scrivener. “Is this the time for marrying? What do we want with a woman in the business?”