"I demand of you, Master Byrckmann, that if you come across him you shall take his work with a subtle readiness. Pretend to applaud his endeavours. Make him all sorts of promises. Make him believe that it is a joy to you to be of service in his cause; but when he is gone, send me instant word as soon as you have traced him to the house wherein he is lodging."
"Father," said Margaret, whose arm stole about his neck while they still bent over the counter.
He looked at her and saw the colour coming back to her face, and her lips were now relaxed to their usual softness after this intolerable strain.
"What is it, my dear?" Byrckmann asked.
"The Captain of the Guard had other papers in his belt, so he must be going the round of the printers. Do you not think so?"
"That must be it, my child. I thank God," he murmured, clasping his hands like one in prayer as they rested on the counter. "None knows but God, and Master Tyndale and you and I——"
"And Herman, father, and his mother," said Margaret softly. "They know."
"Ah yes! I had forgotten. Now may God send the good man safe deliverance."
He unclasped his hands and stood upright, and gazed out of the window with eyes that gleamed with tears which blurred the forms of those who walked along the street. None of the passers-by suspected what nearness to tragedy there had been in the printer's shop.
"Kiss me, father," said Margaret, and the printer, turning, put his arms about her, and kissed her almost passionately. He had always loved his daughter, but here was an even closer bond; something that was linking them to other things; things that were sacred, and beyond the matters that came in the common round of daily life.