"I was right! I was right!" he cried joyfully, so elated by his own acumen that for the moment his anxiety was forgotten.
"Read that, Ambrose," and he eagerly thrust into his hands Luke Hempen's letter.
"Humph!" said Master Ambrose when he had finished it. "Well, what are you so pleased about?"
"Don't you see, Ambrose!" cried Master Nathaniel impatiently. "That mysterious fellow in the cloak must be Endymion Leer ... nobody else knows about your vision."
"Oh, yes, Nat, blunt though my wits may be I see that. But I fail to see how the knowledge helps us in any way." Then Master Nathaniel told him about Dame Marigold's theories and discoveries.
Master Ambrose hummed and hawed, and talked about women's reasoning, and rash conclusions. But perhaps he was more impressed, really, than he chose to let Master Nathaniel see. At any rate he grudgingly agreed to go with him by night to the Guildhall and investigate the hollow panel. And, from Master Ambrose, this was a great concession; for it was not the sort of escapade that suited his dignity.
"Hurrah, Ambrose!" shouted Master Nathaniel. "And I'm ready to bet a Moongrass cheese against a flask of your best flower-in-amber that we'll find that rascally quack at the bottom of it all!"
"You'd always a wonderful eye for a bargain, Nat," said Master Ambrose with a grim chuckle. "Do you remember, when we were youngsters, how you got my pedigree pup out of me for a stuffed pheasant, so moth-eaten that it had scarcely a feather to its name, and, let me see, what else? I think there was a half a packet of mouldy sugar-candy...."
"And I threw in a broken musical-box whose works used to go queer in the middle of 'To War, Bold Sons of Dorimare,' and burr and buzz like a drunk cockchafer," put in Master Nathaniel proudly. "It was quite fair—quantity for quality."