There was a small crowd, some twenty or thirty people grouped at a distance from the gate. Their interest was concentrated upon the kneeling figure that confronted Ronnie as he walked out of the lodge.
"He comes here every time we have a hanging," said the gateman in Ronnie's ear.
It was the thin man in the threadbare coat; he knelt bareheaded, his blue hands clasped, his voice hoarse with a cold.
"—let him be the child of Thy mercies—pardon, we beseech Thee, O Lord our God, this our brother who comes before Thy seat of Judgment—"
Ronnie listened to the husky voice. Presently and with a final supplication, the man got up and dusted his knees.
"For whom are you praying?" asked Ronnie gently.
"For Ambrose Sault, brother," answered the man.
"For Ambrose Sault?" repeated Ronnie absently, "that is very sweet." He looked thoughtfully at the man and then walked away.
Following the Common road that would have taken him to Wechester, he heard a car coming behind him and presently the glittering bonnet moved past him and stopped.
"Excuse me, sir."