"In the inn called the 'Red Bull,' in Cheapside."
"Good. I have lodged there myself," said the other. "And you are one—"
"No, sir," said Robin, "I do not deny that I spoke with them all—with
Mr. Charnoc and—"
"That is enough of those names, sir," said the other, with a small and fearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if he dreaded the very trees that nearly met overhead in this place. "And what is your business?"
"I have satisfied you, then—" began Robin.
"Not at all, sir. You have answered sufficiently so far; that is all. I wish to know your business."
"The night following the day on which the men fled, of whom I have just spoken, I had a letter from—from their leader. He told me that all was lost, and he gave me a letter to her Grace here—"
He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract suddenly, and paused.
"Go on, sir," whispered the old voice.
"A letter to her Grace, sir. I was to use my discretion whether I carried it with me, or learned it by rote. I have other interests at stake besides this, and I used my discretion, and destroyed the letter."