"But the lady?" gasped Hogan, amazed at Crispin's lack of
thought for her.

"I hear her step upon the stairs. Leave me now, Harry, but as
you go, desire the landlord to send for a priest. The lady
remains."

One look of utter bewilderment did Hogan bestow upon Sir
Crispin, and for once his glib, Irish tongue could shape no
other words than:

"Soul of my body!"

He wrung Crispin's hand, and in a state of ineffable perplexity
he hurried from the room to do what was required of him.

For a moment Crispin stood by the window, and looking out into
the night he thanked God from his heart for his solution of the
monstrous riddle that had been set him.

Then the rustle of a gown drew his attention, and he swung
round to find Cynthia smiling upon him from the threshold.

He advanced to meet her, and setting his hands upon her
shoulders, he held her at arm's length, looking down into her
eyes.

"Cynthia, my Cynthia!" he cried. And she, breaking past the
barrier of his grasp, nestled up to him with a sigh of sweet
and unalloyed content.