CHAPTER XVII.
SOWING THE WIND.
Late of an evening near to Michaelmas, three men applied for admission at the door of a house close to the edge of the Thames, and which, by reason of its surroundings, assured security from observation to those who might choose to abide therein. Knocking upon the panel with the hilt of a heavy rapier which he had drawn from its scabbard, the shorter of the trio listened impatiently for the sounds which would precede the drawing of the bolts within. His companions, who were in the shadow of a neighboring wall, glanced about apprehensively.
"'Tis an ill-favored place, Sir Thomas," whispered one, grasping tighter the hilt of his sword as though the touch of the steel might calm in a measure his disquietude. "Scarce is it to my liking that friend Guido hath chosen so——"
His companion laughed uneasily. "He hath a keen wit," replied he, "and much precaution is necessary that none suspect at the eleventh hour. As thou seest, good Percy, 'tis a most peaceful region, with few abroad and no signs of the authorities."
"Peaceful, indeed," replied Percy, casting his eyes down the poorly lighted and narrow street through which he had come; "so is a charnel-house, yet one would scarce——"
A second rap upon the door, delivered with increased force, interrupted the whispered conversation.
"Within!" growled Fawkes, bending so that his lips were on a level with the keyhole. "Art sleeping, Master Keyes, or——"