Abashed, the landlord and his dame fell apart. Then, ere the gentleman could pass her, Mistress Quinn, like a true opportunist, sped swiftly down the passage and into the common room before her husband could again detain her. Now, within the common room of the Suffolk Arms Sir Crispin sat face to face with a very pretty fellow, all musk and ribbons, and surrounded by some half-dozen gentlemen on their way to 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. “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. “Saddle me a horse,” cried Crispin, leaping to his feet, and pitching Mr. Foster's trinket upon the table as though it were a thing of no value. “Towards Denham you say they rode? Quick, man!” And as the host departed he swept the gold and the ring he had won into his pockets preparing to depart. “Hoity toity!” cried Mr. Foster. “What sudden haste is this?”