And he turned his head the better to survey the Irishman.
“Aye, I have prospered,” Hogan assented. “My life is a sort of parable of the fatted son and the prodigal calf. They tell me there is greater joy in heaven over the repentance of a sinner than—than—Plague on it! How does it go?”
“Than over the downfall of a saint?” suggested Crispin.
“I'll swear that's not the text, but any of my troopers could quote it you; every man of them is an incarnate Church militant.” He paused, and Crispin laughed softly. Then abruptly: “And so you were riding to London?” said he.
“How know you that?”
“Faith, I know more—much more. I can even tell you to what house you rode, and on what errand. You were for the sign of the Anchor in Thames Street, for news of your son, whom Joseph Ashburn hath told you lives.”
Crispin sat bolt upright, a look of mingled wonder and suspicion on his face.
“You are well informed, you gentlemen of the Parliament,” he said.
“On the matter of your errand,” the Irishman returned quietly, “I am much better informed than are you. Shall I tell you who lives at the sign of the Anchor—not whom you have been told lives there, but who really does occupy the house?” Hogan paused a second as though awaiting some reply; then softly he answered his own question: “Colonel Pride.” And he sat back to await results.
There were none. For the moment the name awoke no recollections, conveyed no meaning to Crispin.