arty of town sparks that had halted at the inn
standing arms akimbo in the narrow passage, clearly waiting for them
to make room. "A touching sight, sir," said he sardonically to the
landlord. "A wondrous touching sight to behold a man of your years
playing the turtle-dove to his good wife like the merest fledgeling.
It grieves me to intrude myself so harshly upon your cooing, though
if you'll but let me pass you may resume your chaste embrace without
uneasiness, for I give you my word I'll never look behind me."

Abashed, the landlord and his dame fell apart. Then, ere the gentleman
could pass her, Mistress Quinn, like a true opportunist, sped swiftly
down the passage and into the common room before her husband could again
detain her.

Now, within the common room of the Suffolk Arms Sir Crispin sat face to
face with a very pretty fellow, all musk and ribbons, and surrounded by
some half-dozen gentlemen on their way to London who had halted to rest
at Stafford.

The pretty gentleman swore lustily, affected a monstrous wicked look,
assured that he was impressing all who stood about with some conceit of
the rakehelly ways he pursued in town.

A game started with crowns to while away the tedium of the enforced
sojourn at the inn had grown to monstrous proportions. Fortune had
favoured the youth at first, but as the stakes grew her favours to him
diminished, and at the moment that Cynthia rode out of the inn-yard, Mr.
Harry Foster flung his last gold piece with an oath upon the table.

"Rat me," he groaned, "there's the end of a hundred."

He toyed sorrowfully with the red ribbon in his black hair, and Crispin,
seeing that no fresh stake was forthcoming, made shift to rise. But the
coxcomb detained him.

"Tarry, sir," he cried, "I've not yet done. 'Slife, we'll make a night
of it."

He drew a ring from his finger, and with a superb gesture of disdain
pushed it across the board.

"What'll ye stake?" And, in the same breath, "Boy, another stoup," he
cried.

Crispin eyed the gem carelessly.

"Twenty Caroluses," he muttered.

"Rat me, sir, that nose of yours proclaims you a jew, without more. Say
twenty-five, and I'll cast."

With a tolerant smile, and the shrug of a man to whom twenty-five or
a hundred are of like account, Crispin consented. They threw; Crispin
passed and won.

"What'll ye stake?" cried Mr. Foster, and a second ring followed the
first.

Before Crispin could reply, the door leading to the i