During this speech, Lord Beachcombe had quieted down, and was now seated opposite the prisoner, whom he regarded with fixed attention.
"What does your claimant call himself? Under what name is he known?" he demanded abruptly.
"You can not know it without perusing the documents," said Robin, "and you can not do that until I am free to bring them to you myself."
"I tell you," exclaimed the earl pettishly, "that you overestimate my influence. How can I obtain the pardon of a highwayman who attacked the Lord Archbishop?"
"I took nothing from his grace but his wig!" cried Robin, with a boisterous laugh, "and so that he might not catch cold in his venerable head, I gave him in exchange a comfortable cotton nightcap, that had once been the property of the Mayor of York! 'Twas a fair exchange, and methinks the archbishop would scarcely wish me hanged for a joke, when I might have stripped him of a coachful of treasure."
Lord Beachcombe rose. "There are yet three days," he said grudgingly. "I'll see what can be done."
"Three days for me, my Lord, but not for you," said Robin significantly. "I must know by this time to-morrow what my chances are with you, for the letter I was inditing to your cousin Francis can not be delayed longer than that."
"Francis!" sneered Lord Beachcombe. "What do you imagine he can do for you? A man whose name is hardly known at court! An indolent recluse; a mere bumpkin!"
"For me? Probably nothing," Robin replied, in a stern, threatening tone. "But what can he do for you, with those papers in his possession? I may be dead before they reach him, but my revenge will be sure, in his hands."
"Do you suppose he will put himself out for you—your claimant? You evidently don't know Francis."