“Just built,” remarked Tabbard.
“Yes,” returned the hostess, setting the dishes called for before the two strangers and smiling as though she felt flattered over the knowledge that her house was the subject of observation and comment.
“Where went the old building?” asked Tabbard.
The hostess turned her hand with thumb pointing upwards and said, “In smoke.”
“Yes,” said Marlowe, whose scarlet doublet and silver-corded belt had awakened the hostess’ admiration and almost hushed her into respectful awe, “I saw its blaze from as far south as the Standard in Cheap. The old tavern was twice as large as this, and being just outside the wall was greatly frequented by travelers approaching London late at night.”
“Do many stop here now?” inquired Tabbard.
“Not many at this season,” answered the hostess.
“The last one before you, kind sir,” she continued, now turning her attention to Marlowe and bowing so that her eyes caught only the sparkle of his rapier’s hilt, “left just as you entered. He acted strangely as he caught sight of you.”
“So, who was he?”
“He gave me no name, but as he went out I heard him say: ‘My chance to serve the church is ripe.’”