had failed in that at least."

"Sdeath, Harry," Crispin exclaimed. "Will you tell me the news?"

Hogan pondered a moment. Then:

"I will relate the story from the very beginning," said he. "Some four
hours after your departure from Waltham) my men brought in the malignant
we were hunting. I dispatched my sergeant and the troop forthwith to
London with the prisoner, keeping just two troopers with me. An hour or
so later a coach clattered into the yard, and out of it stepped a short,
lean man in black, with a very evil face and a crooked eye, who bawled
out that he was Joseph Ashburn of Castle Marleigh, a friend of the Lord
General's, and that he must have horses on the instant to proceed upon
his journey to London. I was in the yard at the time, and hearing the
full announcement I guessed what his business in London was. He entered
the inn to refresh himself and I followed him. In the common room the
first man his eyes lighted on was your son. He gasped at sight of him,
and when he had recovered his breath he let fly as round a volley of
blasphemy as ever I heard from the lips of a Puritan. When that was
over, "Fool," he yells, "what make you here?" The lad stammered and grew
confused. At last--"I was detained here," says he. "Detained!" thunders
the other, "and by whom?" "By my father, you murdering villain!" was the
hot answer.

"At that Master Ashburn grows very white and very evil-looking. "So," he
says, in a playful voice, "you have learnt that, have you? Well, by God!
the lesson shall profit neither you nor that rascal your father. But
I'll begin with you, you cur." And with that he seizes a jug of ale that
stood on the table, and empties it over the boy's face. Soul of my body!
The lad showed such spirit then as I had never looked to find in him.
"Outside," yells he, tugging at his sword with one hand, and pointing
to the door with the other. "Outside, you hound, where I can kill you!"
Ashburn laughed and cursed him, and together they flung past me into the
yard. The place was empty at the moment, and there, before the clash of
their blades had drawn interference, the thing was over--and Ashburn had
sent his sword through Jocelyn's heart."

Hogan paused, and Crispin sat very still and white, his soul in torment.

"And Ashburn?" he asked presently, in a voice that was singularly hoarse
and low. "What became of him? Was he not arrested?"

"No," said Hogan grimly, "he was not arrested. He was buried. Before he