"It shall be of the best," replied Jerningham, with his strange smile. "When it comes," he said to himself, as the captain rode out of the gate.
And the captain was saying to himself: "Either his knave has not told him, or he counts it of no matter. Ten to one, from his look, he is forging some plot against her; but she will be safe from all plots this time to-morrow, I think." And he headed his horse for the Canterbury road.
Jerningham went to his own chamber in Winchester House, a fair room looking toward the church of St. Mary Overie. He had not been there a quarter of an hour, when to him came Gregory, dusty and tired, but eager-eyed.
"What news?" inquired the master, with simulated coldness.
"An't please you, sir, I have stuck to his heels since you bade me. Twice they led me to that goldsmith's house."
"Ah! What happened there? Make short telling of it, knave!"
"The first time was last night. The maid talked with him alone in the garden. I could not hear what they said, until she called him by the name of Holyday."
"A false name. The rascal!—then he has his plot, too!"
"Ay, sir; and, thinking to nip it in the bud, I came forth and denounced him to her, saying he was Ravenshaw. Belike he spoke of it to you awhile ago."
"Go on. What did the maid then?"