watched at night to see that all was well. For the rest, the
living-rooms of this house where Castell, Margaret his daughter, and
Peter dwelt, were large and comfortable, being new panelled with oak
after the Tudor fashion, and having deep windows that looked out upon
the garden.

When Peter and Betty reached the door, not that which led into the shop,
but another, it was to find that Margaret and d'Aguilar, who were
walking very quickly, must have already passed it, since it was shut,
and they had vanished. At his knock--a hard one--a serving-man opened,
and Peter strode through the vestibule, or ante-chamber, into the hall,
where for the most part they ate and sat, for thence he heard the sound
of voices. It was a fine room, lit by hanging lamps of olive oil, and
having a large, open hearth where a fire burned pleasantly, while the
oaken table in front of it was set for supper. Margaret, who had thrown
off her cloak, stood warming herself at the fire, and the Senor
d'Aguilar, comfortably seated in a big chair, which he seemed to have
known for years, leaned back, his bonnet in his hand, and watched
her idly.

Facing them stood John Castell, a stout, dark-bearded man of between
fifty and sixty years of age, with a clever, clean-cut face and piercing
black eyes. Now, in the privacy of his home, he was very richly attired
in a robe trimmed with the costliest fur, and fastened with a gold chain
that had a jewel on its clasp. When Castell served in his shop or sat in
his counting-house no merchant in London was more plainly dressed; but
at night, loving magnificence at heart, it was his custom thus to
indulge in it, even when there were none to see him. From the way in
which he stood, and the look upon his face, Peter knew at once that he
was much disturbed. Hearing his step, Castell wheeled round and