known.

He was in mortal fear, and yet his quaking heart would suddenly be
braced by a gust of anger. He knew he was a rogue, but there were
limits to roguery, and something in him--conscience, maybe, or forgotten
gentility--sickened at this outrage. He had an impulse to defy them,
to gain the street and give the alarm to honest men. These fellows were
going to construct a crime in their own way which would bring death to
the innocent.... Mr. Lovel trembled at himself, and had to think hard on
his family in the Billingsgate attic to get back to his common-sense.
He would not be believed if he spoke out. Oates would only swear that
he was the culprit, and Oates had the ear of the courts and the mob.
Besides, he had too many dark patches in his past. It was not for such
as he to be finicking.

The body was pushed under an old truckle-bed which stood in the
corner, and a mass of frails, such as gardeners use, flung over it for
concealment. Oates rubbed his hands.

"The good work goes merrily," he said. "Sir Edmund dead, and for a week
the good fawk of London are a-fevered. Then the haarrid discovery,
and such a Praatestant uprising as will shake the maightiest from his
pairch. Wonderful are Goad's ways and surprising His jaidgements! Every
step must be weighed, since it is the Laard's business. Five days we
must give this city to grow uneasy, and then ... The boady will be safe
here?"

"I alone have the keys," said Prance.

The doctor counted on his thick fingers.
"Monday--Tuesday--Waidnesday--aye, Waidneday's the day. Captain Bedloe,
ye have chairge of the removal. Before dawn by the water-gate, and then
a chair and a trusty man to cairry it to the plaace of discovery. Ye
have appainted the spoat?"

"Any ditch in the Marylebone fields," said Bedloe.

"And before ye remove it--on the Tuesday naight haply--ye will run the
boady through with his swaard--Sir Edmund's swaard."

"So you tell me," said Bedloe gruffly, "but I see no reason in it. The
foolishest apothecary will be able tell how the man met his death."

Oates grinned and laid his finger to his nose. "Ye laack subtelty,
fraiend. The priests of Baal must be met with their own waipons. Look
ye. This poor man is found with his swaard in his braist. He has killed
himself, says the fool. Not so, say the apothecaries. Then why the
swaard, asks the coroner. Because of the daivilish cunning of his
murderers, says Doctor Taitus Oates. A clear proof that the Jaisu