"Then, William, it is one of two things. My eyes or thy word must be false."
"Did you see my face?" asked William.
"Not much of that. With the ears down and the collar up, thy face was pretty effectually concealed. There's not another cloak like thine in all Helstonleigh."
"You are right there," laughed William; "there's not one half so handsome. Admire the contrast of the purple and green plaid and the scarlet collar."
"No, not another like it," emphatically repeated the Quaker. "I tell thee, William Halliburton, in the teeth of thy denial, that I saw thee, or a figure precisely similar to thee, parading the field-path last night, and stealthily watching my windows."
"It's a clear case of ghost," returned William, with an amused look at Cyril Dare. "How much longer am I to make a walking Guy of myself, for your pleasure and Cyril's astonishment?"
"Thee can take it off," replied the Quaker, his curt tone betraying dissatisfaction. Until that moment he had believed William Halliburton to be the very quintessence of truth. His belief was now shaken.
In the small passage between Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel Lynn's, William hung up the cloak and cap. The Quaker turned to Cyril Dare, who was taking off his great-coat, stern displeasure in his tone.
"Dost thee know the time?"
"Just gone half-past nine," replied Cyril.