Diccon Dawn looked up from the fluted shell. “You are as pale as the snow! What is it?”
“Is Jankin gone, and the boy? Here is Friar Martin of Saint Leofric’s.”
“Here!”
“In the street. He has gone by. But I know that he will return.”
Englefield rose from the silver work and they stood in the dusky room. “Did he know you?” he asked.
She told.
He said, “It was chance his being here! He saw what he thought was chance likeness. It will pass from his mind.”
“It may and it may not. Will there be raised a cry against me—against us? Look!”
Hidden themselves, they looked through the window. Other side the street, in the falling snow, stood Friar Martin, intent upon the goldsmith’s house and sign. A man going by was stopped and questioned. Alone once more, the friar gazed, dubitated, drew his picture. Diccon? A Richard made silver dishes for Abbot Mark. June. He came into this house in June, and none in these parts had known him before. And an Alice Dawn like as a twin to Morgen Fay!
The friar made a movement. “If this be so, what gain to Saint Leofric?” But first it was to tell beyond peradventure of a doubt if it were so! He crossed the smith’s street and with his staff knocked upon the door of Diccon Dawn.