“Which we have not found,” said Cavendish.

“Not for all that search of yours at Chartley?” said Richard.  “Methought it was thorough enough!”

“The Lady must have been marvellously prudent as to the keeping of letters,” said Will, “or else she must have received some warning; for there is absolutely naught to be found in her repositories that will serve our purpose.”

“Our purpose!” repeated Richard, as he recollected many little kindnesses that William Cavendish when a boy had received from the prisoner at Sheffield.

“Yea, Master Richard,” he returned, unabashed.  “It is absolutely needful that we should openly prove this woman to be what we know her to be in secret.  Her Majesty’s life will never be safe for a moment while she lives; and what would become of us all did she overlive the Queen!”

“Well, Will, for all your mighty word we, you are but the pen in Mr. Secretary’s hand, so there is no need to argue the matter with you,” said Richard.

The speech considerably nettled Master William, especially as it made Lord Talbot laugh.

“Father!” said Diccon afterwards, “Humfrey tried to warn Mr. Babington that we had seen this Langston, who hath as many metamorphoses as there be in Ovidius Naso, coming privily forth from Sir Francis Walsingham’s closet, but he would not listen, and declared that Langston was holding Mr. Secretary in play.”

“Deceiving and being deceived,” sighed his father.  “That is ever the way, my son!  Remember that if thou playest false, other men will play falser with thee and bring thee to thy ruin.  I would not leave thee here save that the gentlemen pensioners are a more honest and manly sort of folk than yonder gentlemen with their state craft, wherein they throw over all truth and honour as well as mercy.”

This conversation took place as the father and son were making their way to a house in Westminster, where Antony Babington’s wife was with her mother, Lady Ratcliffe.  It had been a match made by Lady Shrewsbury, and it was part of Richard’s commission to see and confer with the family.  It was not a satisfactory interview.  The wife was a dull childish little thing, not yet sixteen; and though she cried, she had plainly never lived in any real sympathy or companionship with her husband, who had left her with her parents, while leading the life of mingled amusement and intrigue which had brought him to his present state; and the mother, a hard-featured woman, evidently thought herself cheated and ill used.  She railed at Babington and at my Lady Countess by turns; at the one for his ruinous courses and neglect of her daughter, at the other for having cozened her into giving her poor child to a treacherous Papist, who would be attainted in blood, and thus bring her poor daughter and grandchild to poverty.  The old lady really seemed to have lost all pity for her son-in-law in indignation on her daughter’s