“There’s the spiced beef, sir; and there are some home-made raised pork pies.”

“That will do,” said Mr. Carlyle.  “Put a quart of ale on the table, and everything likely to be wanted.  And then the household can go to bed; we may be late, and the things can be removed in the morning.  Oh—­and Peter—­none of you must come near the room, this or the next, under any pretence whatever, unless I ring, for I shall be too busy to be disturbed.”

“Very well, sir.  Shall I serve the ham also?”

“The ham?”

“I beg pardon, sir; I guessed it might be Mr. Dill, and he is so fond of our hams.”

“Ah, you were always a shrewd guesser, Peter,” smiled his master.  “He is fond of ham I know; yes, you may put it on the table.  Don’t forget the small kettle.”

The consequence of which little finesse on Mr. Carlyle’s part was, that Peter announced in the kitchen that Mr. Dill had arrived, and supper was to be served for two.  “But what a night for the old gentleman to have trudged through on foot!” exclaimed he.

“And what a trudge he’ll have of it back again, for it’ll be worse then!” chimed in one of the maids.

When Mr. Carlyle got back in the other room, his sister and Richard Hare had scarcely finished staring at each other.

“Please lock the door, Miss Cornelia,” began poor shivering Dick.

“The door’s locked,” snapped she.  “But what on earth brought you here, Richard?  You must be worse than mad.”

“The Bow-street officers were after me in London,” he meekly responded, unconsciously using a term which had been familiar to his boyish years.  “I had to cut away without a thing belonging to me, without so much as a clean shirt.”

“They must be polite officers, not to have been after you before,” was the consolatory remark of Miss Carlyle.  “Are you going to dance a hornpipe through the streets of West Lynne to-morrow, and show yourself openly?”

“Not if I can help it,” replied Richard.

“You might just as well do that, if you come to West Lynne at all; for you can’t be here now without being found out.  There was a bother about your having been here the last time:  I should like to know how it got abroad.”

“The life I lead is dreadful!” cried Richard.  “I might make up my mind to toil, though that’s hard, after being reared a gentleman; but to be an exile, banned, disgraced, afraid to show my face in broad daylight amidst my fellowmen, in dread every hour that the sword may fall!  I would almost as soon be dead as continue to live it.”

“Well, you have got nobody to grumble at; you brought it upon yourself,” philosophically returned Miss Carlyle, as she opened the door to admit her brother.  “You would go hunting after that brazen hussy, Afy, you know, in defiance of all that could be said to you.”

“That would not have brought it upon me,” said Richard.  “It was through that fiend’s having killed Hallijohn; that was what brought the ban upon me.”