Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on London Bridge—he was more so when he got out of it.  He had but little money when he got in, none at all when he got out.  The pickpockets had stripped him of his last farthing. But no matter, so he found his boy.  Being a soldier, he did not go at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his campaign.
What would the boy naturally do?  Where would he naturally go? Well—argued Miles—he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of sound ones.  Whereabouts were his former haunts?  His rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed to be his father, indicated that his home was in one or another of the poorest and meanest districts of London.  Would the search for him be difficult, or long?  No, it was likely to be easy and brief.  He would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming himself King, as usual.  Then Miles Hendon would cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never be separated any more.
So Miles started on his quest.  Hour after hour he tramped through back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy.  This greatly surprised him, but did not discourage him.  To his notion, there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign; the only miscalculation about it was that the campaign was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be short.
When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he was tolerably tired, rather hungry and very sleepy.  He wanted some breakfast, but there was no way to get it.  To beg for it did not occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as soon have thought of parting with his honour; he could spare some of his clothes—yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a disease as for such clothes.
At noon he was still tramping—among the rabble which followed after the royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal display would attract his little lunatic powerfully.  He followed the pageant through all its devious windings about London, and all the way to Westminster and the Abbey.  He drifted here and there amongst the multitudes that were massed in the vicinity for a weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off, thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better his plan of campaign.  By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his musings, he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day was growing old.  He was near the river, and in the country; it was a region of fine rural seats—not the sort of district to welcome clothes like his.
 
It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in the lee of a hedge to rest and think.  Drowsiness presently began to settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon was wafted to his ear, and he said to himself, “The new King is crowned,” and straightway fell asleep.  He had not slept or rested, before, for more than thirty hours. He did not wake again until near the middle of the next morning.
He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged off toward Westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so much time.  Hunger helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to get speech with old Sir Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks, and—but that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be time enough to enlarge it when this first stage should be accomplished.
Toward eleven o’clock he approached the palace; and although a host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction, he was not inconspicuous—his costume took care of that.  He watched these people’s faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant—as to trying to get into the palace himself, that was simply out of the question.
Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and scanned his figure well, saying to himself, “An’ that is not the very vagabond his Majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an ass—though belike I was that before.  He answereth the description to a rag—that God should make two such would be to cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition.  I would I could contrive an excuse to speak with him.”
Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard at him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy’s eyes, he stepped toward him and said—
“You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?”
“Yes, your worship.”
“Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?”
The boy started, and said to himself, “Lord! mine old departed father!” Then he answered aloud, “Right well, your worship.”
“Good—is he within?”
“Yes,” said the boy; and added, to himself, “within his grave.”
“Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say I beg to say a word in his ear?”
“I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir.”
“Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without—I shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad.”
The boy looked disappointed.  "The King did not name him so,” he said to himself; “but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother, and can give his Majesty news of t’other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I warrant.”  So he said to Miles, “Step in there a moment, good sir, and wait till I bring you word.”
Hendon retired to the place indicated—it was a recess sunk in the palace wall, with a stone bench in it—a shelter for sentinels in bad weather. He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers, in charge of an officer, passed by.  The officer saw him, halted his men, and commanded Hendon to come forth.  He obeyed, and was promptly arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the precincts of the palace.  Things began to look ugly.  Poor Miles was going to explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and ordered his men to disarm him and search him.
 
“God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat,” said poor Miles; “I have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than theirs.”
Nothing was found but a document.  The officer tore it open, and Hendon smiled when he recognised the ‘pot-hooks’ made by his lost little friend that black day at Hendon Hall.  The officer’s face grew dark as he read the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to the opposite colour as he listened.
“Another new claimant of the Crown!” cried the officer. &............