l, his hands behind him.

"'Tis a thirsty evening," he informed them.

"Go, tell Richard so," said Wilding, who knew naught of Richard's
altered ways.

"I've thought of it; but haply he's sensitive on the score of drinking
with me again. He has done it twice to his undoing."

"He'll do it a third time, no doubt," said Mr. Wilding curtly, and
Trenchard, taking the hint, turned with a shrug, and went up the lawn
towards the house. He found Richard in the porch, where he had
lingered fearfully, waiting for news. At sight of Mr. Trenchard's grim,
weather-beaten countenance he came forward suddenly.

"How has it sped?" he asked, his lips twitching on the words.

"Yonder they sit," said Trenchard, pointing down the lawn.

"No, no. I mean... Sir Rowland."

"Oh, Sir Rowland?" cried the old sinner, as though Sir Rowland were
some matter long forgotten. He sighed. "Alas, poor Swiney! I fear I've
cheated him."

"You mean?"

"Art slow at inference, Dick. Sir Rowland has passed away in the odour
of villainy."

Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes to
heaven.

"May the Lord have mercy on his soul!" said he.

"May He, indeed!" said Trenchard, when he had recovered from his
surprise. "But," he added pessimistically, "I doubt the rogue's in
hell."

Richard's eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm,
"'I will extol thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not
made my foes to rejoice over me.'"

Dumbfounded, wondering, indeed, was Westmacott's mind unhinged,
Trenchard scanned him narrowly. Richard caught the glance and
misinterpreted it for one of reproof. He bethought him that his joy was
unrighteous. He stifled it, and forced his lips to sigh "Poor Blake!"

"Poor, indeed!" quoth Trenchard, and adapted a remembered line of his
play-acting days to suit the case. "The tears live in an onion that
shall water his grave. Though, perhaps, I am forgetting Swiney." Then,
in a brisker tone, "Come, Richard. What like is the muscadine you keep
at Lupton House?"

"I have abjured all wine," said Richard.

"A plague you have!" quoth Trenchard, understanding less and less. "Have
you turned Mussuman, perchance?"

"No," answered Richard sternly; "Christian."

Trenchard hesitated, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "Hum," said he at
length. "Peace be with you, then. I'll leave you here to bay the moon
to your heart's content. Perhaps Jasper will know where to find me a