“What is it?” whispered Anthony.
“The Catholics,” answered the steward.
“They were taken in Newman’s Court, off Cheapside,” went on the voice, “nearly thirty, with one of their priests, at mass, in his trinkets too—Oldham his name is.”
There was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and Anthony was standing by the officer.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley,” he said;—and a dead silence fell in the hall.—“But is that the name of the priest that was taken yesterday?”
Sir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this young official.
“Yes, sir,” he said shortly.
“Then, then,——” began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low to the Archbishop and went straight out of the hall.
Mr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late that night. Anthony’s face was white and distracted; he came in and stood by the fire, and stared at him with a dazed air.