“Sir Everard Digby, of Tilton, in Rutland; and my cousin, Frank Tresham of Rushton.”
“Good men and true? Both are strange to me.”
“Ay; Digby is a staunch Catholic, but may lack some persuasion to join us. Tresham—well, I count he may be trusted. His money-bags be heavy, though his character is but light. I will make certain that he will not blab nor tattle—that is the thing most to be feared. Know you not Frank Tresham?—my cousin, and my Lord Monteagle’s wife’s brother.”
“Oh ay! I have met him,” said Percy. “I wist not it was he you meant.”
“I had hope once that Mr Fawkes should bring grist to our mill,” said Gatesby, thoughtfully: “but I see that is but a Will-o’-the-Wisp.”
“Mr Fawkes? Oh no! His father was but a younger son—Mr Edward Fawkes of Farnley, a notary at York, and Registrar of the Consistory Court there. He left him but a farm of some thirty pound by the year, and Guy ran through it like a herring through the water. The only hope by his means would be the borrowing of money from his step-father, Mr Foster, and methinks he hath a larger heart than purse.”
They walked on for a few minutes in silence, when Percy said, “How will you get hold of these men?”
“Send Tom Winter to Sir Everard, and I will tackle Tresham. Then, when I return, will we go forth with the mine.”
“Done!” said Percy.
And the pair of conspirators came down the hill.