t brick fireplace, a large pewter mug in his
right hand, an immensely fat man was seated. He was clad as became a
cavalier, although in sober colors, and his attitude was suggestive of
defence, his head being drawn far back to avoid contact with a closed
fist held suggestively before his face. The fist was that of a woman
who, standing before the fire with her other hand resting on her hip,
was evidently delivering her sentiments in no gentle terms.

A long table, black with age and use, stood parallel to the right-hand
wall, and behind this three men were sitting with mugs before them,
eying the disputants with evident interest. To the left a large space
was devoted to three or four bulky casks, and here an aproned drawer sat
astride of a rush-bottomed chair, grinning delightedly and exchanging
nods and winks from time to time with an impish, undersized lad who lay
on his stomach on a wine-butt with his head craning forward over the
edge.

Only an occasional word reached the watcher at the window, but among
these few he recognized a number which were far more forcible than
decent. He drew back, shook his head, and then slowly returned to the
door and looked up.

Yes--he had made no mistake. Above his head there swung the sign of the
Boar's Head. And yet--was it likely or even possible that Sir Percevall
Hart could make such a vulgar haunt as this his headquarters? Sir
Percevall--the Queen's harbinger and the friend of the Prime Minister!

With a sinking heart and a face clouded with anxiety, Droop propped his
bicycle against the wall within the passage and resolutely raised the
heavy latch.

To his surprise, instead of the torrent of words which he had expected
to hear when he opened the door, complete silence reigned as he
entered. The fat man in the chair by the fire was still leaning
backward, but his tankard was now inverted above his head, and a glance
showed that his companions at the long table were similarly employed.

Copernicus turned about and closed the door very carefully, unwilling to
break the profound silence. Then he tiptoed his way to the fire, and
leaning forward rubbed his hands before the crackling logs, nervously
conscious of six pairs of eyes concentrated upon his back. Droop was not
unfamiliar with the bar-rooms of such a city as Boston, but he found an
Elizabethan tavern a very different sort of place. So, although already
warmer than desirable, he could only stand half bent before a fire