'Oh, my soul, Marquess!' said the youth, when they were in the glare of day again. 'What shall we do to mend this wretchedness?' The Marquess looked shrewdly.
'End the wretch who wrought it.'
'Do we go clean to that, Marquess? Have we no back-thoughts of our own?'
'The work is clean enough. You come to-night to the Tower of Flies?'
'Yes, yes, I will come,' said Saint-Pol.
'I shall have one with me,' the Marquess went on, 'who will be of service, mind you.'
'Ah,' said Saint-Pol, 'and so shall I.'
The Marquess stroked his nose. 'Hum,' he said, advising, 'who might your man be, Saint-Pol?'
'One,' said Eustace, 'who has reason to hate Richard as much as that poor lady in there.'
'Who is that?'