Hubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candlelight, with his arm resting easily on the table. He was plainly prosperous, and was even dressed with some distinction; his reddish beard was trimmed to a point; his high forehead was respectably white and bald; and his seals hung from his belt beside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity. Perhaps he was of some importance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsingham was. Hubert sat up a little.
“A mission to me?” he said.
Lackington nodded.
“A few questions on a matter of state.”
He drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis authorising him as an agent, for one month, and dated three days back; and handed it to Hubert.
“I obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. You can trust me implicitly.”
“Will the business take long?” asked Hubert, handing the paper back.
“No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. I have to be at Rye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at Mayfield to-night.”
“At Rye,” said Hubert, “why I came from there yesterday.”
Lackington bowed again, as if he were quite aware of this; but said nothing.