'Do you know if Mr Pendle is within, my friend?' asked the chaplain, with bland politeness.
The stranger started at the mention of the name. His face grew paler, his scar waxed redder, and with all his Dutch courage there was a look of alarm visible in his cold eyes.
'I don't know,' said he, insolently, yet with a certain refinement of speech. 'I shouldn't think it likely that a pot-house like this would be patronised by a bishop.'
'Pardon me, sir, I speak of Mr Gabriel Pendle, the son of his lordship.'
'Then pardon me, sir,' mimicked the man, 'if I say that I know nothing of the son of his lordship; and what's more, I'm d—d if I want to.'
'I see! You are more fortunate in knowing his lordship himself,' said the chaplain, with great simplicity.
The stranger plucked at his worn sleeve with a look of irony. 'Do I look as though I were acquainted with bishops?' said he, scoffingly. 'Is this the kind of coat likely to be admitted into episcopalian palaces?'
'Yet it was admitted, sir. If I am not mistaken you called at the palace two nights ago.'
'Did you see me?'
'Certainly I saw you,' replied Cargrim, salving his conscience with the Jesuitic saying that the end justifies the means. 'And I was informed that you were a decayed clergyman seeking assistance.'