“How like a spider you are!” said Henge, watching him. “Sitting here, you weave and weave until one fly and then another is caught in the meshes of your web, and then you gloat over the victim’s struggles.”
“As you will gloat,” remarked the astrologer, “when your victim is caught in the snare that you are setting.”
His dark companion started and looked at him uneasily. Even in his bold heart there lurked a secret dread of this dwarfish creature’s power; the shining eyes, the keen, fox-like face were full of cunning, wit, relentless purpose, and Henge knew it.
“What hints are these?” he said roughly. “I am not a man to plot as you do; I am no schemer, but an open foe.”
The wizard laughed unpleasantly, lifting his brows with a look of incredulity.
“An open foe?” he remarked placidly; “so, so, ’twas open in the park that morning, but wherefore the masks, Sir Barton?”
Henge sprang up with a curse.
“You spying devil!” he cried; “how came you there?”
At this the little man laughed long and loud, rocking to and fro on his stool, tears of merriment gathering in his eyes, while his fellow conspirator stood staring at him like a wild beast at bay.
“I was not there,” he said at last, wiping his eyes, but shaking still with laughter,—“I was not there, or I might have engaged my Lady Crabtree; an equal match we would have made. Sit down, my son, ’tis no time for such quarrels; I know too much, too much!”