THE GOLD SMUGGLER AND THE PHILOSOPHER
On the evening of the day which had seen Miss Molly's departure for the main land, René, after the usual brisk post-prandial altercation with old Margery by her kitchen fire, was cheerfully finding his way, lantern in hand, to his turret, when in the silence of the night he heard the door of the keep open and close, and presently recognised Sir Adrian's tread echoing on the flagged steps beneath him.
Astonished at this premature return and full of vague dismay, he hurried down to receive his master.
There was a cloud on Sir Adrian's face, plainly discernible in spite of the unaltered composure of his manner.
"I did not expect your honour back so soon," said René, tentatively.
"I myself did not anticipate to return. I had thought I might perhaps stay some days at Pulwick. But I find there is no home like this one for me, René."
There was a long silence. But when René had rekindled a blaze upon the hearth and set the lamp upon the table, he stood a moment before withdrawing, almost begging by his look some further crumb of information.
"My room is ready, I suppose?" inquired Sir Adrian.
"Yes, your honour," quoth the man ruefully, "Margery and I put it back exactly as—as before."
"Good-night then, good-night!" said the master after a pause, warming his hands as the flames began to leap through the network of twigs. "I shall go to bed, I am tired; I had to row myself across. You will take the boat back to-morrow morning."