in Cheapside on which Ralph had been told to keep a suspicious eye, and
he was asked his opinion on the matter; and such things as these
occupied his time fully, until towards four o'clock in the afternoon his
carriage rolled up to the horse-ferry at Lambeth, and he thrust the
papers back into his bag before stepping out.

On arriving at his own little house in Westminster, the rent of which
was paid by his master, he left his other servants to carry up the
luggage, and set out himself again immediately with Morris in a hackney
carriage for Chancery Lane.

As he went, he found himself for the hundredth time thinking of the
history of the man to whom he was going.

Sir Thomas Cromwell was beginning to rise rapidly from a life of
adventure and obscurity abroad. He had passed straight from the
Cardinal's service to the King's three years before, and had since then
been knighted, appointed privy-councillor, Master of the Jewel-house,
and Clerk of the Hanaper in the Court of Chancery. At the same time he
was actively engaged on his amazing system of espionage through which he
was able to detect disaffection in all parts of the country, and thereby
render himself invaluable to the King, who, like all the Tudors, while
perfectly fearless in the face of open danger was pitiably terrified of
secret schemes.

And it was to this man that he was confidential agent! Was there any
limit to the possibilities of his future?

Ralph found a carriage drawn up at the door and, on enquiry, heard that
his master was on the point of leaving; and even as he hesitated in the
entrance, Cromwell shambled down the stairs with a few papers in his
hand, his long sleeveless cloak flapping on each step behind him, and
his felt plumed cap on his head in which shone a yellow jewel.

His large dull face, clean shaven like a priest's, lighted up briskly as
he saw Ralph standing there, and he thrust his arm pleasantly through
his agent's.

"Come home to supper," he said, and the two wheeled round and went out
and into the carriage. Mr. Morris handed the bag through the window to
his master, and stood bare-headed as the carriage moved off over the
newly laid road.

It would have been a very surprising sight to Sir James Torridon to see
his impassive son's attitude towards Cromwell. He was deferential, eager
to please, nervous of rebuke, and almost servile, for he had found his
hero in that tremendous personality. He pulled out his papers now, shook