“Thou’lt have no cause to regret this, mistress,” said Busy complacently, “we will be married this very autumn, and I have it in my mind—­an it please the Lord—­to go up to London and take secret service under my Lord Protector himself.”

“Secret service, Master Busy ... hem ...  I mean Hymn-of-Praise, dear ... secret service? ...  What may that be?”

“’Tis a noble business, Charity,” he replied, “and one highly commended by the Lord:  the business of tracking the wicked to their lair, of discovering evil where ’tis hidden in dark places, conspiracies against my Lord Protector, adherence to the cause of the banished tyrants and ... and ... so forth.”

“Sounds like spying to me,” she remarked curtly.

“Spying? ...  Spying, didst thou say?” he exclaimed indignantly.  “Fie on thee, Charity, for the thought!  Secret service under my Lord Protector ’tis called, and a highly lucrative business too, and one for which I have remarkable aptitude.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye!  See the manner in which I find things out, mistress.  This house now ... thou wouldst think ’tis but an ordinary house ... eh?”

His manner changed; the saintliness vanished from his attitude; the expression of his face became sly and knowing.  He came nearer to Charity, took hold of her wrist, whilst he raised one finger to his lips.

“Thou wouldst think ’tis an ordinary house ... wouldst thou not?” he repeated, sinking his voice to a whisper, murmuring right into her ear so that his breath blew her hair about, causing it to tickle her cheek.

She shuddered with apprehension.  His manner was so mysterious.

“Yes ... yes ...” she murmured, terrified.

“But I tell thee that there’s something going on,” he added significantly.

“La, Master Busy ... you ... you terrify me!” she said, on the verge of tears.  “What could there be going on?”

Master Busy raised both his hands and with the right began counting off the fingers of the left.

“Firstly,” he began solemnly, “there’s an heiress! secondly our master—­poor as a church mouse—­thirdly a young scholar—­secretary, they call him, though he writes no letters, and is all day absorbed in his studies ...  Well, mistress,” he concluded, turning a triumphant gaze on her, “tell me, prithee, what happens?”

“What happens, Master Hymn-of-Praise? ...  I do not understand.  What does happen?”

“I’ll tell thee,” he replied sententiously, “when I have found out; but mark my words, mistress, there’s something going on in this house ...  Hush! not a word to that young jackanapes,” he added as a distant clatter of pewter mugs announced the approach of Master Courage.  “Watch with me, mistress, thou’lt perceive something.  And when I have found out, ’twill be the beginning of our fortunes.”

Once more he placed a warning finger on his lips; once more he gave Mistress Charity a knowing wink, and her wrist an admonitory pressure, then he resumed his staid and severe manner, his saintly mien and somewhat nasal tones, as from the gay outside world beyond the window-embrasure the sound of many voices, the ripple of young laughter, the clink of heeled boots on the stone-flagged path, proclaimed the arrival of the quality.