"Then, till you get authority from the sheriff I cannot allow you to tarry here," said the bailiff in a deferential yet decisive tone.
"Then there remains but for me to journey to York," I replied. "How far lies the city?"
"One hour's ride by Fulford will bring you to Walmgate Bar. The sheriff, methinks, will be found at Clifford's Tower."
Ten minutes later Drake and I were spurring hotly towards York, Felgate, by reason of having but one jack boot and wet clothes, being compelled to stay behind, and before long the massive towers of the Minster showed above the skyline.
So strong was our pace that in less than the hour our horses' hoofs clattered under the archway of the Bar.
On our being ushered into the presence of the sheriff, that worthy, a man of fierce and resolute aspect, curtly demanded our business.
"Sir Aubrey Wentworth, forsooth," he cried, "and not a word in writing to prove your right! Nay, good sirs, I cannot grant you your desires on so weighty a matter with so light a claim. A person of repute must identify you."
"But I know no man in the whole of Yorkshire!" I exclaimed, feeling the hopelessness of my position.
"Then authority must be obtained from the King's Court at St. James's. I can say no more to you, Sir Aubrey, so I wish you good-day."
His manner showed that the interview had ended, and, sick at heart, I left his presence, Drake offering me wasted yet well-meaning consolation.