lain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come!" roared the man of
war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter could
not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise. "Where is
the boy?"

In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information
desired.

"You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth came
running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come to you
straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side. I brought him hither;
and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad did grumble some
little for being disturbed 'so early,' as he called it, but straightway
trussed on his rags and went with the youth, only saying it had been
better manners that your worship came yourself, not sent a stranger--and
so--"

"And so thou'rt a fool!--a fool and easily cozened--hang all thy breed!
Yet mayhap no hurt is done. Possibly no harm is meant the boy. I will
go fetch him. Make the table ready. Stay! the coverings of the bed were
disposed as if one lay beneath them--happened that by accident?"

"I know not, good your worship. I saw the youth meddle with them--he
that came for the boy."

"Thousand deaths! 'Twas done to deceive me--'tis plain 'twas done to
gain time. Hark ye! Was that youth alone?"

"All alone, your worship."

"Art sure?"

"Sure, your worship."

"Collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man."

After a moment's thought, the servant said--

"When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two
stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out
from some near place; and just as he was joining them--"

"What THEN?--out with it!" thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting.

"Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no
more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that
the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to
witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the
unborn babe to judgment for sins com--"

"Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art
flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?"

"Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable
joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--"

"Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!" The
servitor vanished. Hendon f