London who had halted to rest at Stafford.

The pretty gentleman swore lustily, affected a monstrous wicked
look, assured that he was impressing all who stood about with
some conceit of the rakehelly ways he pursued in town.

A game started with crowns to while away the tedium of the
enforced sojourn at the inn had grown to monstrous proportions.
Fortune had favoured the youth at first, but as the stakes grew
her favours to him diminished, and at the moment that Cynthia
rode out of the inn-yard, Mr. Harry Foster flung his last gold
piece with an oath upon the table.

"Rat me," he groaned, "there's the end of a hundred."

He toyed sorrowfully with the red ribbon in his black hair, and
Crispin, seeing that no fresh stake was forthcoming, made shift
to rise. But the coxcomb detained him.

"Tarry, sir," he cried, "I've not yet done. 'Slife, we'll make
a night of it."

He drew a ring from his finger, and with a superb gesture of
disdain pushed it across the board.

"What'll ye stake?" And, in the same breath, "Boy, another
stoup," he cried.

Crispin eyed the gem carelessly.