“And why should not the old man be here?  The world is as free to him as it is to us.  Rather I should have looked upon him as a friend.  For did he not eat at the same board with us, and share the hospitality of the same roof?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Paul quickly; “but so do all men of his calling.  They are always welcome wherever they appear.  But I will tell you why I misdoubt this man.  He first came in whilst we of the house were sitting at dinner, and his eye roved round the room till it fell upon me, and I saw in it then a gleam of recognition which I did not like.  He went out then, and anon returned with a great bearded fellow of sinister aspect.  And I was certain that he pointed me out to him; for though I would not raise my eyes, or seem to notice, I knew that they whispered together, and that this other man’s black eyes were fixed full on my face.”

“That might well be,” answered Edward lightly, “you are a right goodly youth, made to find favour in all eyes.”

But Paul proceeded without heeding the interruption.

“Presently the peddler shuffled round the table, and took the vacant seat beside me—­the seat that should have been yours, Edward.  He pretended that he had only just recognized me, and began to talk in friendly fashion enough.  He asked after you; but I said we had little companionship now—­that you had your own concerns to attend to in the city, and that we might part company at any time.  I would have disclaimed you altogether, save that those at the inn could have told him that I had a brother or comrade with me.  He kept his eye warily on me the whole time.  I know that he was on the watch for news of you.”

“And wherefore not?  Methinks you are over fearful, good Paul.”

“Nay, Edward, think but a moment—­What care would any feel for news of you did they not suspect something?  Who cares whither I go or what I do?  If you were but the obscure stranger you pass for, who would trouble to heed whither your steps were bent or how your time was passed?  As you came in just now, did any man see you pass the threshold?”

“Nay, I know not.  I was heeding little in the street.  It was dark enough in the narrow alley, darker than it is up here; but—­”

“Wait, Edward, answer me one question yet.  Is it possible that the peddler can have any clue by which he may know you?  Did you betray aught to him that evening when you bartered with him for your suit of clothes?  How did you pay him?  Was it in French gold?”

“Nay, I paid him no money at all.  I gave him a pearl clasp which I had, and he furnished me with funds for the journey to London.  I made a villainous bad bargain, it seems.  The other jewels I have disposed of in London I have got far better price for.

“Now, Paul, why look you so troubled and wan?  Have you yet another lecture in store for your luckless comrade?”

“O Edward, Edward,” cried Paul in anxious tones, “is it really so?  Have you been mad enough to sell jewels which may be known and traced?  Did I not tell you from the very first that I had money enough for both?  You should not have done it.  And why, if done it must be, did you not tell me, and let me do the trafficking?”