On two other occasions I saw him though he did not see me. The first was on a certain afternoon in October when it grows dark about five. I was strolling down Garlickhithe near Queenhithe. As I passed the Church of St. James's which stands a little back with steps I saw two figures conversing: one was a man whom I knew at once for my cousin by his shoulders and by the shape of his head. The other was a woman with a veil over her face. I knew the man next by his voice. Our Matthew had such a voice—oily and yet harsh. 'If you loved me,' he said, 'you would do this simple thing.'
'I will never do it,' she declared, passionately. 'You have deceived me.'
I would not be an eavesdropper, and I passed on. Matthew, therefore, had 'deceived'—the word may mean many things—a woman. Matthew, of all men! However, it was no concern of mine.
A third time I saw him—or heard him, because I did not see him. It was in one of those taverns where small square pews are provided with high walls so that one cannot be heard. I sat in one with Tom Shirley, taking a pint of wine. All round were the voices of people carrying on business in whispers and in murmurs. Suddenly I distinguished the voice of Matthew.
'The security is good,' he said. 'There is no finer security in the City. I want the money.'
'You can have some to-morrow night.' I was destined to hear a great deal more of that grating voice. 'And the rest next week, if I can get the papers signed. It is a confidential business, I suppose.
'Nothing is to be said. Our House does not like to borrow money, but the occasion is pressing.'
'Let us go,' I said to Tom. 'We shall learn presently all Matthew's secrets.'
'Matthew? Your cousin Matthew?'
'He is in one of the boxes. I have heard his voice. Come, Tom.'