* * * * *

It had been a melancholy ride, in spite of the air of freedom through which they rode, since news had come to them, in more than one place, of the fortunes of the Babington party.  A courier, riding fast, had passed them as they sighted Buckingham; and by the time they came in, he was gone again, on Government business (it was said), and the little town hummed with rumours, out of which emerged, at any rate, the certainty that the whole company had been captured.  At Coventry, again, the tidings had travelled faster than themselves; for here it was reported that Mr. Babington and Mr. Charnoc had been racked; and in Lichfield, last of all, the tale was complete, and (as they learned later) tolerably accurate too.

It was from a clerk in the inn there that the story came, who declared that there was no secrecy about the matter any longer, and that he himself had seen the tale in writing.  It ran as follows: 

The entire plot had been known from the beginning, Gilbert Gifford had been an emissary of Walsingham’s throughout; and every letter that passed to and from the various personages had passed through the Secretary’s hands and been deciphered in his house.  There never had been one instant in which Mr. Walsingham had been at fault, or in the dark:  he had gone so far, it was reported, as to insert in one of the letters that was to go to Mr. Babington a request for the names of all the conspirators, and in return there had come from him, not only a list of the names, but a pictured group of them, with Mr. Babington himself in the midst.  This picture had actually been shown to her Grace in order that she might guard herself against private assassination, since two or three of the group were in her own household.

“It is like to go hard with the Scots Queen!” said the clerk bitterly.  “She has gone too far this time.”

Robin said nothing to commit himself, for he did not know on which side the man ranged himself; but he drew him aside after dinner, and asked whether it might be possible to get a sight of the Queen.

“I am riding to Derby,” he said, “with my man.  But if to turn aside at Chartley would give us a chance of seeing her, I would do so.  A queen in captivity is worth seeing.  And I can see you are a man of influence.”

The clerk looked at him shrewdly; he was a man plainly in love with his own importance, and the priest’s last words were balm to him.

“It might be done,” he said.  “I do not know.”

Robin saw the impression he had made, and that the butter could not be too thick.

“I am sure you could do it for me,” he said, “if any man could.  But I understand that a man of your position may be unwilling—­”

The clerk solemnly laid a hand on the priest’s arm.

“Well, I will tell you this,” he said.  “Get speech with Mr. Bourgoign, her apothecary.  He alone has access to her now, besides her own women.  It might be he could put you in some private place to see her go by.”