Cromwell was so busy during the rest of the day that there was no opportunity to explain the circumstances to him; indeed he was hardly in the room again, so great was the crowd that waited on him continually for interviews, and Ralph went away, leaving the reports for his chief to examine at his leisure.

* * * * *

The next morning there was a storm.

Cromwell burst out on him as soon as he came in.

“Shut the door, Mr. Torridon,” he snapped.  “I must have a word with you.”

Ralph closed the door and came across to Cromwell’s table and stood there, apparently imperturbable, but with a certain quickening of his pulse.

“What is this, sir?” snarled the other, taking up the letter that was laid at his hand.  “Is it true?”

Ralph looked at him coolly.

“What is it, my Lord?  Mr. Robert Benham?”

“Yes, Mr. Robert Benham.  Is it true?  I wish an answer.”

“Certainly, my Lord.  It is true.”

“You hindered this piece being played?  And you used my name?”

“I told them who I was—­yes.”

Cromwell slapped the paper down.

“Well, that is to use my name, is it not, Mr. Torridon?”

“I suppose it is.”

“You suppose it is!  And tell me, if you please, why you hindered it.”

“I hindered it because it was not decent.  My mother had been buried that day.  My father asked me to do so.”

“Not decent!  When the mummers have my authority!

“If your Lordship does not understand the indecency, I cannot explain it.”

Ralph was growing angry now.  It was not often that Cromwell treated him like a naughty boy; and he was beginning to resent it.

The other stared at him under black brows.

“You are insolent, sir.”

Ralph bowed.

“See here,” said Cromwell, “my men must have no master but me.  They must leave houses and brethren and sisters for my sake.  You should understand that by now; and that I repay them a hundredfold.  You have been long enough in my service to know it.  I have said enough.  You can sit down, Mr. Torridon.”

Ralph went to his seat in a storm of fury.  He felt he was supremely in the right—­in the right in stopping the play, and still more so for not destroying the complaint when it was in his hands.  He had been scolded like a school-child, insulted and shouted down.  His hand shook as he took up his pen, and he kept his back resolutely turned to his master.  Once he was obliged to ask him a question, and he did so with an icy aloofness.  Cromwell answered him curtly, but not unkindly, and he went to his seat again still angry.

When dinner-time came near, he rose, bowed slightly to Cromwell and went towards the door.  As his fingers touched the handle he heard his name called; and turned round to see the other looking at him oddly.

“Mr. Torridon—­you will dine with me?”