Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake. I always told you some accident would happen. Spurling was standing near the fire superintending some culinary preparation; but she no sooner perceived him, than hastily quitting her occupation, she elbowed a way for him and the knight through the crowd, and ushered them, with much ceremony, into an inner room, where they found the objects of their search, Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok, seated at a small table, quietly smoking. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade.
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