An event occurred which led me to believe Crites had no notion of Wicklow’s true identity. It occurred on a Friday as I wended my weary way home from school in my gig. It happened that Dame Aldridge sat with me, her own horse having stretched a tendon. Crites hailed us up along the way, riding his old underbred gray mare. It was generally understood that when Crites raised his right hand to you, it was only a salutation, but when the left hand was held straight out before him, the oncoming person was to stop, as though his arm were a toll gate. Today he raised his left arm. I always experienced an unpleasant twinge of guilt and even fear when I saw Crites, though my main preoccupation these days regarding smuggling centered on Williams, the more dangerous opponent. I drew in and smiled prettily at him, while his own teeth extended out to return the pleasantry. “A stiff breeze,” I mentioned. Stiff enough to worry me actually, but it did not seem to be rising, and it was not yet unmanageable.
