“A friend?” asked Lackington.
“No,” said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington looked at him.
“I remember him,” he said in a moment; “he was imprisoned at Wisbeach six or seven years ago. But I do not think he has been in trouble since. You wish, you wish——?” he went on interrogatively.
“Nothing,” said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in his eyes.
The horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said good-bye to Hubert with a touch of the old deference again, and mounted. Hubert watched him out under the gatehouse-lamp into the night beyond, and then he went in again, pondering.
His wife was waiting for him in the hall now—a delicate golden-haired figure, with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. She ran to him and took his arm timidly in her two hands.
“Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert.”
He looked down at her almost contemptuously.
“Why, you know nothing of him!” he said.
“Not much,” she said, “but he asked me so many questions.”