Mr. John, biting his moustaches.

"It was the very question I put to myself," said Robin. "And I took the
liberty of seeing where they went. They went to Mr. Columbell's own
house, and indoors of it. The serving-men held the horses at the door. I
watched them awhile from Mr. Biddell's window; but they were still there
when I came away at last."

"What hour was that?" asked the old man.

"That would be after dinner-time. I had dined early; and I met them
afterwards. My lord would surely be dining with Mr. Columbell. But that
is no answer to my question. It rather pierces down to the further
point, Why was my lord Shrewsbury dining with Mr. Columbell? Shrewsbury
is a great lord; Mr. Columbell is a little magistrate. My lord hath his
own house in the country, and there be good inns in Derby."

He stopped short.

"What is the matter, Mistress Manners?" he asked.

"What of yourself?" she said sharply; "you were speaking of yourself."

Robin laughed.

"I had forgotten myself for once!... Why, yes; I intended to ask the
company what I had best do. What with this news of Mr. Simpson, and the
report Mistress Manners gives us of the country-folk, a poor priest must
look to himself in these days; and not for his own sake only. Now, my
lord Shrewsbury's man knows nothing of me except that I had strange
business at Fotheringay a year ago. But to have had strange business at
Fotheringay a year ago is a suspicious circumstance; and--"

"Mr. Alban," broke in the old man, "you had best do nothing at all. You
were not followed from Derby; you are as safe in Padley or here as you
could be anywhere in England. All that you had best do is to remain here
a week or two and not go down to Derby again for the present. I think
that showing of yourself openly in towns hath its dangers as well as its
safeguards."

Mr. John glanced round. Marjorie bowed her head in assent.

"I will do precisely as you say," said Robin easily. "And now for the
news of her Grace's servants."

He had already again and again told the tale of Fotheringay so far as he
had seen it in this very parlour. At first he had hardly found himself
able to speak of it without tears. He had described the scene he had
looked upon when, in the rush that had been made towards the hall after
Mary's head had been shown at the window, he had found a place, and had
been forced along, partly with his will and partly against it, right
through the great doors into the very pla