As a matter of fact, this was the case. But when the playwright entered the parlor, he found a man sitting there in expectation of his arrival. It was a warm evening of July, but the face and the form of the visitor were hidden in the folds of a voluminous cloak.
The unbidden guest, whoever he might be, received Shakespeare coolly enough. He did not even take the trouble to rise from his chair when the poet came into the room, but merely held up his hand as if to imply a need of caution and secrecy, and then in a tone of studied insolence told him to close the door.
Shakespeare was quick to recognize the voice of his visitor. The man was Sir Robert Grisewood.
“To what is due this honor?” said the poet with a courtesy that was deeply ironical.
He knew well enough that his visitor was not likely to be inspired by any good motive. But long ago he had taken the measure of the man, and he did not fear him in the least. Indeed, for that matter, he feared no man, but with that prudence which springs from an intimate knowledge of the world, he was at once upon his guard.
“You do well to ask that question, my friend,” said Grisewood, unmuffling his face in order that Shakespeare not only might see it, but that he might also be disconcerted by the sight of it.
“What is your business with me, Sir Robert Grisewood?” said Shakespeare, coldly and contemptuously.
“I will tell you.” The eyes of the unwelcome visitor were full of menace. “I will tell you in a very few words, good Master Actor and Versifier. Your precious life is not worth five minutes’ purchase.”
The dramatist was wholly unaffected by the announcement.
“That may be so,” he said, coldly. And he gave his shoulders a shrug, which implied that the information was of very little consequence.