m in the malignant army--a rakehelly, dissolute brawler. I saw him in
Worcester when he was taken after the fight."

Hogan frowned. The righteous Beddoes knew overmuch. "That is the man,"
he answered calmly. "Go now, and see that he does not ride past you. I
have great and urgent need of him."

Beddoes' eyes were opened in surprise.

"He is possessed of valuable information," Hogan explained. "Away with
you, man."

When alone, Harry Hogan turned his arm-chair sideways towards the fire.
Then, filling himself a pipe--for in his foreign campaigning he had
acquired the habit of tobacco-smoking--he stretched his sinewy legs
across a second chair, and composed himself for meditation. An hour went
by; the host looked in to see if the captain required anything. Another
hour sped on, and the captain dozed.

He awoke with a start. The fire had burned low, and the hands of the
huge clock in the corner pointed to midnight. From the passage came to
him the sound of steps and angry voices.

Before Hogan could rise, the door was flung wide, and a tall, gaunt man
was hustled across the threshold by two soldiers. His head was bare,
and his hair wet and dishevelled. His doublet was torn and his shoulder
bleeding, whilst his empty scabbard hung like a lambent tail behind him.

"We have brought him, captain," one of the men announced.

"Aye, you crop-eared, psalm-whining cuckolds, you've brought me, d--n
you," growled Sir Crispin, whose eyes rolled fiercely.

As his angry glance lighted upon Hogan's impressive face, he abruptly
stemmed the flow of invective that rushed to his lips.

The Irishman rose, and looked past him at the troopers. "Leave us," he
commanded shortly.

He remained standing by the hearth until the footsteps of his men had
died away, then he crossed the chamber, passed Crispin without a word,
and quietly locked the door. That done, he turned a friendly smile on
his tanned face--and holding out his hand:

"At last, Cris, it is mine to thank you and to repay you in some measure
for the service you rendered me that night at Penrith."

CHAPTER XXI. THE MESSAGE KENNETH BORE

In bewilderment Crispin took the outstretched hand of his old
fellow-roysterer.

"Oddslife," he growled, "if to have me waylaid, dragged from my horse
and wounded by those sons of dogs, your myrmidons, be your manner of
expressing gratitude, I'd as lief you had let me go unthanked."

"And yet, Cris, I dare swear you'll thank me b