"Lawrence Lee!" echoed Walcot, casting an involuntary glance behind him ere the words had well left his lips. Could he be such a prey to strange fancies, or had he in very deed and truth heard a low gasping breath break from the wall? "You're certain he's to be trusted?"
"I flatter myself," replied the maltster, a faint smile curling his lips, "that Master Lawrence Lee would think twice before he refused to comply with the slightest wish of Richard Rumbold."
"Wasn't his father a Royalist?" said Howard.
"And what if he were, my lord?" rejoined Rumbold. "Lee is a lad of spirit, and exercises his right of private judgment."
"Exactly," said Howard, with a dubious shrug. "He takes leave to call his soul his own. And that, of course, is all in this business. But how about his heart? You have a daughter, have you not, Master Hannibal?"
"And what if I have, my lord?" said the maltster coldly.
"Oh, no offence," carelessly returned Howard; "but she is a comely lass, they say. Quite a rustic beauty."
"Beauty is skindeep, my lord. She is a good child."
"And minds her doll," broke out Rumsey in a hoarse laugh.
"Nay," said Rumbold in displeased tones, "my Ruth's doll-days are about over. But she minds her wheel; and meddles not in such matters as we are discussing—or should be discussing," he added, as the clock over their heads struck midnight. "Moments are precious."