“How did he know she was coming back?” he cried suddenly, as he sprang up and caught a telescope from where it lay upon a row of books, adjusted it, and stood looking out of the open window.
“Yes, its his boat; and there he stands using a glass watching her home.”
He shrank away, with his eyes looking dull and sunken as he laid the glass upon the shelf.
“How did he know—how did he know?”
He sank down in a chair, and buried his face in his hands, as a flood of surmises rushed through his brain, every one full of agony, and all pointing to the idea that Claude must have been in communication with Glyddyr, or he never could have timed his return after all these months like that.
Half-an-hour had passed, and then he started from his chair, for there was a loud report.
He sank back in his seat again, with a mocking laugh.
“Beer!” he said bitterly. “Beer! What a world this is!”
And in imagination he saw the white smoke curling up from the mouth of the little cannon which stood by the flagstaff in front of the Harbour Inn, knowing, as he did, that the piece had been loaded in honour of Glyddyr’s return, and fired with the taproom poker, made red for the purpose.
Then there arose a boisterous burst of cheering, taken up again and again, as Glyddyr’s gig was rowed up to the steps, and he stepped out upon the pier.