Hogan slowly took the seat opposite to him, and coughed. He
was at a loss how to open the parlous subject, how to
communicate to Crispin the amazing news upon which he had
stumbled.

"Slife' Hogan," laughed Crispin dreamily, "I little thought it
was to you those crop-ears carried me with such violence. I
little thought, indeed, ever to see you again. But you have
prospered, you knave, since that night you left Penrith."

And he turned his head the better to survey the Irishman.

"Aye, I have prospered," Hogan assented. "My life is a sort of
parable of the fatted son and the prodigal calf. They tell me
there is greater joy in heaven over the repentance of a sinner
than - than - Plague on it! How does it go?"

"Than over the downfall of a saint?" suggested Crispin.

"I'll swear that's not the text, but any of my troopers could
quote it you; every man of them is an incarnate Church
militant." He paused, and Crispin laughed softly. Then
abruptly: "And so you were riding to London?" said he.

"How know you that?"

"Faith, I know more - much more. I can even tell you to what
house you rode, and on what errand. You were for the sign of
the Anchor in Thames Street, for news of your son, whom Joseph
Ashburn hath told you lives."