Make the table ready.

Stay! the coverings of the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them--happened that by accident ?" "I know not, good your worship.

I saw the youth meddle with them--he that came for the boy." "Thousand deaths! 'Twas done to deceive me--'tis plain 'twas done to gain time.

Hark ye! Was that youth alone ?" "All alone, your worship." "Art sure ?" "Sure, your worship." "Collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man." After a moment's thought, the servant said-- "When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them--" "What THEN ?--out with it!" thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting.
"Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com--" "Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art flying?
Canst not bide still an instant?
Went they toward Southwark ?" "Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--" "Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!" The servitor vanished.

Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son.