Rupert's blue eyes opened in the starlight. "Have you not your latch-key?"
"What should hinder me?" responded Cris. "I'm going in; but I can't let you in."
"Why not?" hotly asked Rupert.
"I don't choose to fly in the Squire's face. He has ordered you to be in before half-past ten, or not to come in at all. It has gone half-past ten long ago: is hard upon eleven."
"If you can go in after half-past ten, why can't I?" cried Rupert.
"It's not my affair," said Cris, with a yawn. "Don't bother. Now look here. It's of no use following me, for I shall not let you in."
"Yes you will, Cris."
"I will not," responded Cris, emphatically. Rupert's temper was getting up.
"Cris, I wouldn't show myself such a hangdog sneak as you to be made king of England. If every one had their rights, Trevlyn Hold would be mine, to shut you out of it if I pleased. But I wouldn't please. If only a dog were turned out of his kennel at night, I would let him into the Hold for shelter."
Cris put his latch-key into the lock. "I don't turn you out. You must settle that question with the Squire. Keep off. If he says you may be let in at eleven, well and good; but I'm not going to encourage you in disobeying orders."