He was scanning the other’s face attentively and inquiringly.
“Well,” he said, “that saves me an explanation. She has told you? I am cursed in the fellow, Blythewood. I find him in league with those ruffians, and what to do with him the Lord knows.”
“Where is he?”
“I have him under bolt and board for the present.”
“In the ‘Priest’s Hole’?”
“Ah! she hath informed you? It serves as a lockhouse pro tempore, and until I can hale the rogue before the leet of Winton and procure his committal.”
“How did you force him in there—into that hole, I mean? and he smitten with terror no doubt.”
“Smitten, as you say. He was half-dead with it. He went in like a log.”
“Harkee, Tuke. You must have him out again.”
The other stared.