“How was he dressed?” asked Marlowe, suddenly setting down his half-raised mug, and fixing his eyes upon the hostess.
“Like a Puritan,” she answered.
“And what business have honest Puritans hanging around the bars of ordinaries and taverns?” exclaimed Marlowe, while Tabbard sneered audibly, and asked:
“And of what appearance was this man who was lounging here for the service of God?”
“His long red beard was all I noted,” she replied.
“I know him not,” said Marlowe, shaking his head, and then he asked:
“Do you know his name?”
“Methinks that a man who was with him earlier called him Bame at times, and again Richard.”
“Richard Bame!” exclaimed Marlowe, lifting his eyebrows and gazing fixedly at the woman. “And he said that his chance to serve the church was ripe?”
“True,” nodded the hostess, with her fists against her waist and continuing to look at her interlocutor as though in expectation that he would explain what interest he had in the man who had departed.