says I, and scarce were the words out of my mouth before the horse clatters up to the house and stops.  I could hear him panting and heaving as his rider gets off and strides up to bang on the door.  ‘What dost thou want?’ says I, putting my head out of the window.  ‘Come down and let me in,’ answers he; ’I have no time to spare.  You have a thing in your house I would find.’  ’Twas a gentleman’s voice, and I saw ’twas a gentleman’s dress he wore, for ’twas fine cloth, and his sword had a silvered scabbard, and his hat rich plumes.  ‘Come down,’ says he, and bangs the door again, so down I went.”

“Who was he?” asked her Grace slowly, for he had stopped for breath.  She sat quite still as before, her round chin held in her hands, her eyes fixed on him, but there was no longer any laughter in their blackness.  “Did he tell his name?”

“Not then,” was the answer; “nor did he know I heard when he spoke it, breaking forth in anger.  But that is to come later”—­with the air of one who would have his tale heard to the most dramatic advantage.  “Into this room he strides and to the window straight and looks below the sill.  ‘Four years ago,’ says he, ’there was a hole here in the wall.  Was’t so or was’t not?’ and he looks at me sharp and fierce as if he would take me by the throat if I said there had been none.  ’Ay, there was a hole there long enough,’ I answers him, ’but ’twas mended with new plaster at last.  Your lordship can see the patch, for ’twas but roughly done.’  Then he goes close to it and stares.  ‘Ay,’ says he, ‘there has been a hole mended.  Old Chris did not lie.’  And on that he turns to me.  ‘Get out of the room,’ he says, ’I have a search to make here.  Your wall will want another patch when I am done,’ he says.  ’But ‘twill be made good.  Go thy ways.’  And he draws out his hanger, and there was sweat on his brow and he breathed fast, as if he was wild with his anxiousness to find what he sought.”

“And didst leave him?” asked her Grace, as quiet as before.  “For how long?”

The old man grinned.

“Not for long,” said he, “nor did I go far.  I stood outside, where I could see through the crack o’ the door.”

The Duchess nodded with an unmoved face.

“He was like a man in a frenzy,” the host went on.  “He dug at the plaster till I thought his sword would break; he dug as if he were paid for it by the minute.  He made a hole bigger than had been there before, and when ’twas made he thrusts his hand in and fumbles about, cursing under his breath.  And of a sudden he gives a start and stops and pants for breath, and then draws his hand back, and it was bloody, being scratched by the stone and plaster, but he held somewhat in it, a little dusty package, and he clutches it to his breast and laughs outright.  Good Lord, ’twas like a devil’s laugh, ’twas so wild and joyful.  ‘Ha, ha!’ cries he, shaking the thing in the air and stamping his foot, ‘Jack Oxon comes to his own again, to his own!’”