In John Castell’s house it was the habit, as in most others in those days, for his dependents, clerks, and shopmen to eat their morning and mid-day meals with him in the hall, seated at two lower tables, all of them save Betty, his daughter’s cousin and companion, who sat with them at the upper board. This morning Betty’s place was empty, and presently Castell, lifting his eyes, for he was lost in thought, noted it, and asked where she might be—a question that neither Margaret nor Peter could answer. One of the servants at the lower table, however—it was that man who had been sent to follow d’Aguilar on the previous night—said that as he came down Holborn a while before he had seen her walking with the Spanish don, a saying at which his master looked grave. Just as they were finishing their meal, a very silent one, for none of them seemed to have anything to say, and after the servants had left the hall, Betty arrived, flushed as though with running. “Where have you been that you are so late?” asked Castell. “To seek the linen for the new sheets, but it was not ready,” she answered glibly. “The mercer kept you waiting long,” remarked Castell quietly. “Did you meet any one?” “Only the folk in the street.” “I will ask you no more questions, lest I should cause you to lie and bring you into sin,” said Castell sternly. “Girl, how far did you walk with the Señor d’Aguilar, and what was your business with him?” Now Betty knew that she had been seen, and that it was useless to deny the truth. “Only a little way,” she answered, “and that because he prayed me to show him his path.” “Listen, Betty,” went on Castell, taking no notice of her words. “You are old enough to guard yourself, therefore as to your walking abroad with gallants who can mean you no good I say nothing. But know this—no one who has knowledge of the matters of my house,” and he looked at her keenly, “shall mix with any Spaniard. If you are found alone with this señor any more, that hour I have done with you, and you never pass my door again. Nay, no words. Take your food and eat it elsewhere.” So she departed half weeping, but very angry, for Betty was strong and obstinate by nature. When she had gone, Margaret, who was fond of her cousin, tried to say some words on her behalf; but her father stopped her. “Pshaw!” he said, “I know the girl; she is vain as a peacock, and, remembering her gentle birth and good looks, seeks to marry above her station; while for some purpose of his own—an ill one, I’ll warrant— that Spaniard plays upon her weakness, which, if it be not curbed, may bring trouble on us all. Now, enough of Betty Dene; I must to my work.” “Sir,” said Peter, speaking for the first time, “we would have a private word with you.”