CHAPTER XXI.
"IF WE FIGHT....

WHAT SAY YOU TO LAVINIA FENTON ?" The big room of the "Angel and Sun" hard by Cripples Gate was the scene of loud talk, louder laughter and the clank of pewter mugs on the solid oaken table.

The fat landlord, divested of his wig, which he only wore on high days and holidays, was rubbing his shiny pate with satisfaction.
The Grub Street writers were his best customers, and when they had money in their pockets they were uneasy until it was gone.
The room was low pitched; its big chimney beams projected so much that it behoved a tall man to be careful of his movements; it was full of dark shadows thrown by the two candles in iron sconces on the walls; a high settle was on either side of the fire in front of which stood the bow-legged host, his eyes beaming on the rapidly emptying bottles.
A slight sound, a movement, caused the landlord to glance towards the door.

A stranger had entered.

He was not of the Grub Street fraternity.
He had too much swagger.