"Twenty Caroluses," he muttered.

"Rat me, sir, that nose of yours proclaims you a jew, without
more. Say twenty-five, and I'll cast."

With a tolerant smile, and the shrug of a man to whom
twenty-five or a hundred are of like account, Crispin
consented. They threw; Crispin passed and won.

"What'll ye stake?" cried Mr. Foster, and a second ring
followed the first.

Before Crispin could reply, the door leading to the interior of
the inn was flung open, and Mrs. Quinn, breathless with
exertion and excitement, came scurrying across the room. In
the doorway stood the host in hesitancy and fear. Bending to
Crispin's ear, Mrs. Quinn delivered her message in a whisper
that was heard by most of those who were about.

"Gone!" cried Crispin in consternation.

The woman pointed to her husband, and Crispin, understanding
from this that she referred him to the host, called to him.

"What know you, landlord?" he shouted. "Come hither, and tell
me whither is she gone!"

"I know not," replied the quaking host, adding the particulars
of Cynthia's departure, and the information that the lady
seemed in great anger.