"I met him in town once," went on Hubert smoothly; "a little man, dark,
with large eyes, and looks somewhat like a Frenchman."
"Buxton, Buxton?" said the other again. "A Papist, is he not?"
"Yes," said Hubert, hoping to get some information against him.
"A friend?" asked Lackington.
"No," said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington looked at him.
"I remember him," he said in a moment; "he was imprisoned at Wisbeach six
or seven years ago. But I do not think he has been in trouble since. You
wish, you wish----?" he went on interrogatively.
"Nothing," said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in his eyes.
The horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said good-bye to
Hubert with a touch of the old deference again, and mounted. Hubert
watched him out under the gatehouse-lamp into the night beyond, and then
he went in again, pondering.
His wife was waiting for him in the hall now--a delicate golden-haired
figure, with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. She ran to him and took
his arm timidly in her two hands.
"Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert."
He looked down at her almost contemptuously.
"Why, you know nothing of him!" he said.
"Not much," she said, "but he asked me so many questions."
Hubert started and looked suddenly at her, in terror.
"Oh, Hubert!" she said, shrinking back frightened.
"Questions!" he said, seizing her hands. "Questions of whom?"
"Of--of--Mistress Isabel Norris," she said, almost crying.
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