“Who was the man you were talking with by the Pool?”
“Grylls? A poor, willing kind of rogue who has learned to make himself of use. Small fry, Jack, to float in shallow streams. I have deeper waters for you, sir, with all your guns and tackle.”
There was a gleam of grimness in his eyes as he spoke.
“The Bible sayeth, Jack, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’ A wise saying, truly; yet I have a wiser, and that, sir, is, ‘Put not your faith in the mob.’ Trust the sheep-dog, and watch the wag of his tail, rather than bump and scurry and run with the flock. Yonder lies our anchorage.”
A house rose before them amid the trees, its windows dark save for one in the first story, and that dim with the shadow of drawn curtains. John Gore recognized it as the house of Hortense. They were crossing the ground where he had fought my Lord Pembroke that wet night in summer.
“Is your call there, sir?”
Stephen Gore glanced this way and that, and then laid a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Yes. Join with me, Jack; there are nobler prizes to be won here than you will ever take at sea.”
They entered the Mazarin’s house through the little garden door, behind which some one seemed to have been waiting, for it was opened directly my lord had given five sharp knocks. The door closed behind them, and in the dim light John Gore saw the janitor was a woman. My lord walked straight ahead toward a back stairway as though he knew the intimate secrets of the house. John Gore was following him, when he felt the woman touch his arm.
“Of your curtesy, sir, the lock has caught; will you turn it for me?”