He had died of fever at Malaga, and Dick Devereux was at last a step, and a long one--nearer to the title.

So Dan was back again in his old garret.
Travel had not educated him in the world's ways.

In them he was the same queer, helpless tyro.

And his costume, though he had a few handsome articles--for, travelling with a sprig of nobility, he thought it but right and seemed to dress accordingly--was on that account, perhaps, only more grotesque than ever.

But he had acquired mountains of that lore in which he and good Doctor Walsingham delighted.