“Tout-a-l'heure, monsieur,” replied the landlord. “At the moment he is absent. He went out to take the air a couple of hours ago, and is not yet returned.”
“Heaven send he has walked into the sea!” Crispin broke out passionately. Then as passionately he checked himself. “No, no, my God—not that! I meant not that.”
“Monsieur will sup?”
“At once, and let me have lights.” The host withdrew, to return a moment later with a couple of lighted tapers, which he set upon the table.
As he was retiring, a heavy step sounded on the stair, accompanied by the clank of a scabbard against the baluster.
“Here comes milord's countryman,” the landlord announced.
And Crispin, looking up in apprehension, saw framed in the doorway the burly form of Harry Hogan.
He sat bolt upright, staring as though he beheld an apparition. With a sad smile, Hogan advanced, and set his hand affectionately upon Galliard's shoulder.
“Welcome to France, Crispin,” said he. “If not him whom you looked to find, you have at least a loyal friend to greet you.”
“Hogan!” gasped the knight. “What make you here? How came you here? Where is Jocelyn?”