"Oh, but sell secrets, that is too much!" Cutting Tom was saying, in an injured tone. "A poor soldier hath little but his honour. Belike I am ill-favoured with wounds, and ragged with poverty through serving my country, but my honour, sir! my trust! my loyalty! Troth, 'tis mine only jewel, and if I sold it—well, I should want a good price, and there's the hell of it!"
But even when a price was fixed, Cutting Tom, dazzled on one side by his lifetime's chance of obtaining so excellent a patron, on the other side fearful of Ravenshaw's vengeance, temporised and mumbled and held back, until Jerningham assured him of protection and of Ravenshaw's long absence from London. The rascal then told all he knew of what was planned to be carried out that night.
Jerningham listened with apparent passivity, though at the last he averted his eyes lest his exultation should gleam out of them. Here was all trouble, all desperate and well-nigh impossible venturing, made needless on his part. He studied the matter for a minute, and then said, musingly:
"His companion and a maid—the White Horse—'tis the nearest tavern—sooth, there can be no question it is she. Look you, sirrah, I must know to what place they are bound."
"I would I knew. 'Tis somewhere on the Kentish side of the river."
"What, would the rascal dare?—think you 'tis the place he is now riding to?"
"He said he would be in the neighbourhood of our destination, and he would come to-morrow to pay and dismiss us."
"If he is to come to you to-morrow, it cannot be to the Grange,—he will be there already. He knows more of that neighbourhood than he would have me think; he used the name Holyday—there's a Holyday family in that country. Well, I know not; but 'tis certain you will be near my house of Marshleigh Grange."
A grim smile flitted over Jerningham's face, as he saw another difficulty removed—for he could now dispense with the use of the Dutch innkeeper at Blackwall, and with the risk of putting his captive aboard from so public a place.