The Irishman rose, and looked past him at the troopers. “Leave us,” he commanded shortly. He remained standing by the hearth until the footsteps of his men had died away, then he crossed the chamber, passed Crispin without a word, and quietly locked the door. That done, he turned a friendly smile on his tanned face--and holding out his hand: “At last, Cris, it is mine to thank you and to repay you in some measure for the service you rendered me that night at Penrith.” CHAPTER XXI. THE MESSAGE KENNETH BORE In bewilderment Crispin took the outstretched hand of his old fellow-roysterer. “Oddslife,” he growled, “if to have me waylaid, dragged from my horse and wounded by those sons of dogs, your myrmidons, be your manner of expressing gratitude, I'd as lief you had let me go unthanked.” “And yet, Cris, I dare swear you'll thank me before another hour is sped. Ough, man, how cold you are! There's a bottle of strong waters yonder--” Then, without completing his sentence, Hogan had seized the black jack and poured half a glass of its contents, which he handed Crispin. “Drink, man,” he said briefly, and Crispin, nothing loath, obeyed him. Next Hogan drew the torn and sodden doublet from his guest's back, pushed a chair over to the table, and bade him sit. Again, nothing loath, Crispin did as he was bidden. He was stiff from long riding, and so with a sigh of satisfaction he settled himself down and stretched out his long legs. Hogan slowly took the seat opposite to him, and coughed. He was at a loss how to open the parlous subject, how to communicate to Crispin the amazing news upon which he had stumbled. “Slife' Hogan,” laughed Crispin dreamily, “I little thought it was to you those crop-ears carried me with such violence. I little thought, indeed, ever to see you again. But you have prospered, you knave, since that night you left Penrith.” And he turned his head the better to survey the Irishman. “Aye, I have prospered,” Hogan assented. “My life is a sort of parable of the fatted son and the prodigal calf. They tell me there is greater joy in heaven over the repentance of a sinner than--than--Plague on it! How does it go?” “Than over the downfall of a saint?” suggested Crispin. “I'll swear that's not the text, but any of my troopers could quote it you; every man of them is an incarnate Church militant.” He paused, and Crispin laughed softly. Then abruptly: “And so you were riding to London?” said he. “How know you that?” “Faith, I know more--much more. I can even tell you to what house you rode, and on what errand. You were for the sign of the Anchor in Thames Street, for news of your son, whom Joseph Ashburn hath told you lives.” Crispin sat bolt upright, a look of mingled wonder and suspicion on his face. “You are well informed, you gentlemen of the Parliament,” he said.