Then Galliard spoke at last, and the mildness of his tone
filled Kenneth with a new dread. In his experience of
Crispin's ways he had come to look upon mildness as the man's
most dangerous phase:

"You are mistaken," Crispin said. "I spoke the truth; it is a
habit of mine - haply the only gentlemanly habit left me. I
repeat, I have had naught to do with your detention. I arrived
here half an hour ago, as the captain will inform you, and I
was conducted hither by force, having been seized by his men,
even as you were seized. No," he added, with a sigh, "it was
not my hand that detained you; it was the hand of Fate." Then
suddenly changing his voice to a more vehement key, "Know you
on what errand you rode to London?" he demanded. "To betray
your father into the hands of his enemies; to deliver him up to
the hangman."

Kenneth's eyes grew wide; his mouth fell open, and a frown of
perplexity drew his brows together. Dully, uncomprehendingly
he met Sir Crispin's sad gaze.

"My father," he gasped at last. "'Sdeath, sir, what is it you
mean? My father has been dead these ten years. I scarce
remember him."

Crispin's lips moved, but no word did he utter. Then with a
sudden gesture of despair he turned to Hogan, who stood apart,
a silent witness.