“I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial,” and he indicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug of wine ruddy in the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously.
“I know you, sir,” he said, “but I cannot put a name to your face.”
“Lackington,” said the man with a half smile; “Joseph Lackington.”
Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh.
“Why, yes,” he said; “I know now. My father’s servant.”
The man bowed.
“Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham,” he said, with something of dignity in his manner.
Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer.
“Why, I am pleased to see you,” he said. “You have come to see your old—home?” and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs to the blaze, for he was stiff with riding. Lackington instantly sat down too, for his pride was touched.
“It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell,” he said almost in the tone of an equal, “but on a mission for Sir Francis.”