“Let him look to this fellow. Tell him to set him under lock and bolt here in the inn until I shall want him, and tell him that he shall answer for him with his neck.” Kenneth drew back in alarm. “Sir--Captain Hogan--will you explain?” “Marry, you shall have explanations to spare before morning, else I'm a fool. But have no fear, for we intend you no hurt,” he added more softly. “Take him away, Beddoes; then return to me here.” When Beddoes came back from consigning Kenneth into the hands of his trooper, he found Hogan seated in the leathern arm-chair, with Ashburn's letter spread before him on the table. “I was right in my suspicions, eh?” ventured Beddoes complacently. “You were more than right, Beddoes, you were Heaven-inspired. It is no State matter that you have chanced upon, but one that touches a man in whom I am interested very nearly.” The sergeant's eyes were full of questions, but Hogan enlightened him no further. “You will ride back to your post at once, Beddoes,” he commanded. “Should Lord Oriel fall into your hands, as we hope, you will send him to me. But you will continue to patrol the road, and demand the business of all comers. I wish one Crispin Galliard, who should pass this way ere long, detained, and brought to me. He is a tall, lank man--” “I know him, sir,” Beddoes interrupted. “The Tavern Knight they called him in the malignant army--a rakehelly, dissolute brawler. I saw him in Worcester when he was taken after the fight.” Hogan frowned. The righteous Beddoes knew overmuch. “That is the man,” he answered calmly. “Go now, and see that he does not ride past you. I have great and urgent need of him.” Beddoes' eyes were opened in surprise. “He is possessed of valuable information,” Hogan explained. “Away with you, man.” When alone, Harry Hogan turned his arm-chair sideways towards the fire. Then, filling himself a pipe--for in his foreign campaigning he had acquired the habit of tobacco-smoking--he stretched his sinewy legs across a second chair, and composed himself for meditation. An hour went by; the host looked in to see if the captain required anything. Another hour sped on, and the captain dozed. He awoke with a start. The fire had burned low, and the hands of the huge clock in the corner pointed to midnight. From the passage came to him the sound of steps and angry voices. Before Hogan could rise, the door was flung wide, and a tall, gaunt man was hustled across the threshold by two soldiers. His head was bare, and his hair wet and dishevelled. His doublet was torn and his shoulder bleeding, whilst his empty scabbard hung like a lambent tail behind him. “We have brought him, captain,” one of the men announced. “Aye, you crop-eared, psalm-whining cuckolds, you've brought me, d--n you,” growled Sir Crispin, whose eyes rolled fiercely. As his angry glance lighted upon Hogan's impressive face, he abruptly stemmed the flow of invective that rushed to his lips.