t show of civility, followed instantly by a
sidelong leer at his cronies about him.

Hugh Ritson held himself stiffly, and merely said:

"Where did you get it?"

At this question there were sundry snorts and titters and muttered
responses from the men at the tables. Hugh's eyes passed over them with
a steely glance.

"Stolen it, I suppose," he said quietly.

"Ay," said Drayton, "and a neat job too. Natt 'ticed away the Methodee
man while I borrowed it."

Drayton seemed to be proud of his share in the transaction, and his
friends laughed loudly at the adroit turn he had given to the matter.
Natt's drowsy eyes were preternaturally bright at that great moment.

Hugh Ritson's forehead darkened with ire.

"This is your gratitude to the clergyman," he said.

Sundry further snorts and sniggers went round the tables.

"There's not a man of you who is not beholden to Parson Christian," said
Hugh, sternly. He twisted sharply round upon one graybeard whose laugh
still rumbled between his teeth. "Reuben Rae, who nursed your sick wife?
John Proudfoot," to the blacksmith, "what about your child down with the
fever?" His quick eye traversed the parlor, and more than one lusty
crony was fain to bury his face in his breast. "Yet you laugh, brave
fellows as you are, when the good man's house is broken into by a
thief."

Drayton took a swift stride toward him.

"Drop it, and quick!" he shouted.

Hugh Ritson governed himself with an effort.

"I'm not here to brawl," he said quietly.

"Pigeon-livered blatherskite!--that's what I call ye--d'ye hear?" said
Drayton.

Hugh's face flinched, but he turned on his heel, and was on the road at
the next instant.

Drayton followed him out, laughing boisterously. Hugh made one quick
step backward and shut the door; then he turned about on Drayton, whose
cruel face could be dimly seen in the hazy red light that came through
the blinds.

"You have tried to torture me," he said, "just as you would hang a dog
by its tail, or draw the teeth of a rat. You have threatened with worse
torture a good and loyal woman. You are a scoundrel, and you know it!
But even you would hesitate if you knew for certain who or what you are.
Let me tell you again, now, when we are alone, and while I have no
personal interest to serve: You are the man whose name I gave you--Paul
Lowther, son of Robert Lowther--and that lady, my brother's wife, whom
for reason of profit you would compel to live under the s