Then he glanced across the room.
Through the half-closed doors of a cupboard in the corner he espied some dishes of meat—cold bacon, a half eaten pasty, several loaves of bread.
"Fugitives cannot be over and above honest," he muttered with a laugh, as he swept the contents of the cupboard into a cloth, and tucked the bundle under his arm. "We can make the loss good to mine host, some day, perchance, and food we must have. Now, Mistress Barbara, if you are ready."
He stopped with a look of consternation, for even as he spoke, the passage door again opened, and they heard a man's voice calling aloud:
"This way, Master Peters, we can transact our business somewhat more privately here."
The only possible hiding place the room afforded was the space between the high-backed settle and the wall. In an instant the two had stepped back into its shadow, and crouched there, scarce daring to breathe, hoping only that the dim uncertain light might conceal their presence from the two men who a moment later entered the room.
The first was a big, burly farmer, with round, red, solemn face and somewhat wooden cast of countenance. He took up his stand by the table, facing the settle, but with the light between him and the fugitives.
His companion afforded a marked contrast; a small, thin, wiry, sharp-featured man. His pale face was alight with intellect, but his narrow-set blue eyes were hard as steel, and while seeming to pierce a man's inner-most thoughts, yet gave in return no vestige of answering confidence. He was soberly suited in black, and carried in his hand an open letter, and a small bag of gold.
This was no other than Master Stephen Jewars, my Lord Jeffrey's clerk and secretary, one in whom it was commonly averred his lordship trusted more nearly and confided more honestly than in any other living man.
The secretary, laying the letter open upon the table, turned and faced the farmer.