His elbow resting upon the table, and his hand to his brow so that it shaded his eyes, sat Crispin long in thought, swayed by emotions and doubts, the like of which he had never yet known in the whole of his chequered life. Was Joseph lying to him?
That was the question that repeatedly arose, and oddly enough, for all his mistrust of the man, he was inclined to account true the ring of his words. Joseph watched him with much anxiety and some hope.
At length Crispin withdrew his hands from eyes that were grown haggard, and rose.
“Let us see the letter that you will write,” said he. “There you have pen, ink, and paper. Write.”
“You promise?” asked Joseph.
“I will tell you when you have written.”
In a hand that shook somewhat, Joseph wrote a few lines, then handed Crispin the sheet, whereon he read:
The bearer of this is Sir Crispin Galliard, who is intimately interested in the matter that lies betwixt us, and whom I pray you answer fully and accurately the questions he may put you in that connexion.
“I understand,” said Crispin slowly. “Yes, it will serve. Now the superscription.” And he returned the paper.
Ashburn was himself again by now. He realized the advantage he had gained, and he would not easily relinquish it.