Once, a year ago, a woman had whispered
her suspicion of a man, and he was found dead in his lodging in Pall
Mall before he had time to speak of what he knew, even if he intended to
do so.
As he was popular in the county, passing for a God-fearing gentleman, so
Sir John Lanison was popular as the devil's "Abbot." There were few who
could surpass him in wickedness, but he was a man of moods, and there
were times when fear peered out of his eyes. He was superstitious,
finding omens when he gambled at basset, and premonitions in all manner
of foolish signs. He had played this evening with ill success, he had
drunk deeply, and was inclined to be quarrelsome.
"The Abbot is wanting to make us all do penance," laughed Fellowes, who
some time since had parted with sobriety. "I'll read him these verses to
pacify him; they would make an angry devil collapse into a chuckle. Mrs.
Dearmer inspired them, so you may guess how wicked they are."
"Always verses--nothing but verses," said Rosmore, who had drunk little
and seemed to watch his companions with amusement.
"No woman was ever won by poetry," said a girl in Fellowes' ear.
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