George Taylor and William Kemp, arrayed in the robes of the theater, stepped forward together in answer to this summons. Such zeal, however, in nowise embarrassed the man in the plum-colored cloak.
“My lord duke”—he turned to William Kemp—“will you have the good kindness to take in the name of Master Prettyfellow——”
“Pretyman,” corrected the justice, beginning, however, to perspire freely.
The officious provincial was not a little uncertain as to the ground upon which he stood. Judging by the demeanor of these gayly-attired gentlemen and the high tone that went with it, he began to fear that the Queen herself had arrived at the Crown Tavern. And his vanity having allowed him to claim a familiarity with the Court when he had never been there in his life, he had merely to be received in audience by her to incur the risk of a grave exposure.
“One moment, sir,” he said, desperately. “If this unknown lady is the high personage I take her to be, I have no desire——”
But William Kemp, in his ducal trappings, was already away on his errand.
Justice Pretyman felt the situation to be growing desperate. And, to make matters worse, the man in the cloak was fain to misread his attitude of mind.
“I have not the least doubt, sir,” he said, “that if this lady—whom we shall both do well not to name more explicitly—is informed that you are familiar with the Court, she will gladly give you an audience, although you must please remember she travels incognito.”
By this time Justice Pretyman was fully convinced that it was the Queen herself who was lying one night at the Crown Tavern.
“You mistake me, sir,” he said, desperately. “I never said that I was familiar with the Court.”