Thus an hour wore itself out during which poor Hogan sat above, alone with his anxiety and unsavoury thoughts.
CHAPTER II. ARCADES AMBO
Towards midnight at last Sir Crispin flung down his cards and rose. It was close upon an hour and a half since Hogan's advent. In the streets the sounds had gradually died down, and peace seemed to reign again in Penrith. Yet was Sir Crispin cautious—for to be cautious and mistrustful of appearances was the lesson life had taught him.
“Master Stewart,” said he, “it grows late, and I doubt me you would be abed. Give you good night!”
The lad rose. A moment he paused, hesitating, then—
“To-morrow, Sir Crispin—” he began. But Crispin cut him short.
“Leave to-morrow till it dawn, my friend. Give you good night. Take one of those noisome tapers with you, and go.”
In sullen silence the boy took up one of the candle-bearing bottles and passed out through the door leading to the stairs.
For a moment Crispin remained standing by the table, and in that moment the expression of his face was softened. A momentary regret of his treatment of the boy stirred in him. Master Stewart might be a milksop, but Crispin accounted him leastways honest, and had a kindness for him in spite of all. He crossed to the window, and throwing it wide he leaned out, as if to breathe the cool night air, what time he hummed the refrain of `Rub-a-dub-dub' for the edification of any chance listeners.