Amyas half laughed.

“One will do, Mr. Salterne, if one is quick enough with it.”

“Humph!—­Ah—­No use being in a hurry.  I haven’t been in a hurry.  No—­I waited for you; and here you are and welcome, sir!  Here comes supper, a light matter, sir, you see.  A capon and a brace of partridges.  I had no time to feast you as you deserve.”

And so he ran on all supper-time, hardly allowing Amyas to get a word in edge-ways; but heaping him with coarse flattery, and urging him to drink, till after the cloth was drawn, and the two left alone, he grew so outrageous that Amyas was forced to take him to task good-humoredly.

“Now, my dear sir, you have feasted me royally, and better far than I deserve, but why will you go about to make me drunk twice over, first with vainglory and then with wine?”

Salterne looked at him a while fixedly, and then, sticking out his chin—­“Because, Captain Leigh, I am a man who has all his life tried the crooked road first, and found the straight one the safer after all.”

“Eh, sir?  That is a strange speech for one who bears the character of the most upright man in Bideford.”

“Humph.  So I thought myself once, sir; and well I have proved it.  But I’ll be plain with you, sir.  You’ve heard how—­how I’ve fared since you saw me last?”

Amyas nodded his head.

“I thought so.  Shame rides post.  Now then, Captain Leigh, listen to me.  I, being a plain man and a burgher, and one that never drew iron in my life except to mend a pen, ask you, being a gentleman and a captain and a man of honor, with a weapon to your side, and harness to your back—­what would you do in my place?”

“Humph!” said Amyas, “that would very much depend on whether ‘my place’ was my own fault or not.”

“And what if it were, sir?  What if all that the charitable folks of Bideford—­(Heaven reward them for their tender mercies!)—­have been telling you in the last hour be true, sir,—­true! and yet not half the truth?”

Amyas gave a start.

“Ah, you shrink from me!  Of course a man is too righteous to forgive those who repent, though God is not.”

“God knows, sir—­”

“Yes, sir, God does know—­all; and you shall know a little—­as much as I can tell—­or you understand.  Come upstairs with me, sir, as you’ll drink no more; I have a liking for you.  I have watched you from your boyhood, and I can trust you, and I’ll show you what I never showed to mortal man but one.”

And, taking up a candle, he led the way upstairs, while Amyas followed wondering.

He stopped at a door, and unlocked it.

“There, come in.  Those shutters have not been opened since she—­” and the old man was silent.

Amyas looked round the room.  It was a low wainscoted room, such as one sees in old houses:  everything was in the most perfect neatness.  The snow-white sheets on the bed were turned down as if ready for an occupant.  There were books arranged on the shelves, fresh flowers on the table; the dressing-table had all its woman’s mundus of pins, and rings, and brushes; even the dressing-gown lay over the chair-back.  Everything was evidently just as it had been left.