“Shall I tell you why it is not?”
“As you please.”
“Well, to be brief and round with you, good Master Poet, the whole of your doings, your exits and your entrances, as you would say, of the past fortnight are perfectly well known to me. And I would fain inform you that, at this moment, you are harboring under this roof the notorious traitor, Gervase Heriot, and also the young daughter of Sir John Feversham, who conspired with him to break prison.”
Grisewood had the air of one who looses a thunderbolt. But if he looked for the dire effect, which may reasonably be expected to attend such a Jove-like feat, he must have been sadly disappointed. The man to whom his words were addressed showed not the least sign of fear.
“All that you say is true enough,” said the playwright, “if it is any satisfaction to you to know it.”
“Make your mind easy on that score, my friend,” said Grisewood sourly. “It is a very considerable satisfaction to me to know it.”
“And I presume you would gain a profit from your knowledge?”
“Yes, Master Actor, to be brief and round with you, that is certainly my intention. And further, I would inform you that the reward I have in my mind is not one to be despised. Because you will do well to understand that I have ample evidence to implicate you and your fellow-players in the murder of my friend, Mr. Simon Heriot, who was foully done to death in his own house in the course of last Friday night.”
“In other words, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Shakespeare, with a biting coldness that seemed to exasperate his visitor, “you propose to take profit from the murder of your friend.”
“Have a care, you ranting, play-acting swine!”