He drank deeply too, and this Joseph observed with satisfaction. But
here again he misjudged his man. Kenneth, who ate but little, seemed
also to have developed an enormous thirst, and Crispin grew at length
alarmed at that ever empty goblet so often filled. He would have need
of Kenneth ere the hour was out, and he rightly feared that did matters
thus continue, the lad's aid was not to be reckoned with. Had Kenneth
sat beside him he might have whispered a word of restraint in his eat,
but the lad was on the other side of the board.

At one moment Crispin fancied that a look of intelligence passed from
Joseph to Gregory, and when presently Gregory set himself to ply both
him and the boy with wine, his suspicions became certainties, and he
grew watchful and wary.

Anon Cynthia rose. Upon the instant Galliard was also on his feet. He
escorted her to the foot of the staircase, and there:

"Permit me, Mistress Cynthia," said he, "to take my leave of you. In an
hour or so I shall be riding away from Castle Marleigh."

Her eyes sought the ground, and had he been observant of her he might
have noticed that she paled slightly.

"Fare you well, sir," said she in a low voice. "May happiness attend
you."

"Madam, I thank you. Fare you well."

He bowed low. She dropped him a slight curtsey, and ascended the stairs.
Once as she reached the gallery above she turned. He had resumed his
seat at table, and was in the act of filling his glass. The servants had
withdrawn, and for half an hour thereafter they sat on, sipping their
wine, and making conversation--while Crispin drained bumper after
bumper and grew every instant more boisterous, until at length his
boisterousness passed into incoherence. His eyelids drooped heavily, and
his chin kept ever and anon sinking forward on to his breast.

Kenneth, flushed with wine, yet master of his wits, watched him with
contempt. This was the man Cynthia preferred to him! Contempt was there
also in Joseph Ashburn's eye, mingled with satisfaction. He had not
looked to find the task so easy. At length he deemed the season ripe.

"My brother tells me that you were once acquainted with Roland
Marleigh," said he.

"Aye," he answered thickly. "I knew the dog--a merry, reckless soul,
d--n me. 'Twas his recklessness killed him, poor devil--that and your
hand, Mr. Ashburn, so the story goes."

"What story?"

"What story?" echoed Crispin. "The story that I heard. Do you say I
lie?" And, s