The Minor Canon disappears, and in a few moments returns. As he
thought, Mr. Neville has not come back; indeed, as he remembers
now, Mr. Neville said he would probably go straight to the
gatehouse.
'Bad manners in a host!' says Jasper. 'My company will be there
before me! What will you bet that I don't find my company
embracing?'
'I will bet - or I would, if ever I did bet,' returns Mr.
Crisparkle, 'that your company will have a gay entertainer this
evening.'
Jasper nods, and laughs good-night!
He retraces his steps to the Cathedral door, and turns down past it
to the gatehouse. He sings, in a low voice and with delicate
expression, as he walks along. It still seems as if a false note
were not within his power to-night, and as if nothing could hurry
or retard him. Arriving thus under the arched entrance of his
dwelling, he pauses for an instant in the shelter to pull off that
great black scarf, and bang it in a loop upon his arm. For that
brief time, his face is knitted and stern. But it immediately
clears, as he resumes his singing, and his way.
And so HE goes up the postern stair.
The red light burns steadily all the evening in the lighthouse on
the margin of the tide of busy life. Softened sounds and hum of
traffic pass it and flow on irregularly into the lonely Precincts;
but very little else goes by, save violent rushes of wind. It
comes on to blow a boisterous gale.
The Precincts are never particularly well lighted; but the strong
blasts of wind blowing out many of the lamps (in some instances
shattering the frames too, and bringing the glass rattling to the
ground), they are unusually dark to-night.
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