"I am not sure," he said, "that you are not a youth worth considering. I am not sure, I say. There are not six people in England who know my secret, not one who knows it fully; but among those who do there is not one that I would go hand in glove with. But you may be of a different order. You may be, but I have not made up my mind. It may be," and he looked furtively around him again, "it may be that I shall make short work of you, and that your father and mother, if you possess them, may have to mourn the untimely loss of a promising son."

I laughed quietly, as though I were amused, but as I did so I had a sense of uneasiness as to what was in his mind.

"Oh, you laugh, do you?" he snarled; "but wait a little, young master, and you will see that you have nothing to laugh at. Not that you are not a youth of courage. I do not deny that. Nay, more: for one so young you have some sense. I saw that at the start, else you would not be alive now."

Again I laughed; partly because the laugh seemed natural, and partly because I was anxious to impress him with the fact that I had no fear of him.

"I tell you the truth," he cried angrily, "and I bid you not to provoke me too far, for I am somewhat short of temper. There is more than one who has dared to brave me here, and have never been heard of again. What, you defy me! Look. If I put this handful of dust," and he took a small packet from a drawer which contained perhaps an ounce of brown-coloured powder, "I say, if I put this handful of dust in that pot, you would in three minutes be asleep—asleep, ay, with a sleep like unto death. And then what would your swords and pistols avail, my young bantam?"

"Methinks if I fell asleep so would you," I replied, "so we should sleep together, Father Solomon, and perchance I might awake as soon as you."

"But think you that I have not other potions, potions which would resist the action of the fumes which would arise from the pot?"

"Possibly; but let me tell you this, Father Solomon: before the sleep mastered me I would give good account of you."

I spoke like a man deadly in earnest, as in truth I was, for his words had made me feel that my position might be more serious than I had imagined. My earnestness impressed him too, for he turned somewhat hurriedly to me and said—

"Have I not said that you may be a youth worth considering? But, look you, before we go further into this matter I must know with assurance how we stand. For, let me tell you this: if you play the game which is in your mind it will not be for boys' stakes. Neither will it be a game easy to play."

At this I was silent, for I did not wish to use a word which might give him the mastery over me.

"And so, young master, before I tell you the things you are longing to know, I must first know who you are, how you came to know of me, how you fell in with Lucy Walters' mother, and how much you know of the matter which brings you here."

"If I told you these things you would be but little wiser," I replied; "besides, I may not tell them till I know who you are, and whether it is worth my while."

"How old are you?"

"But twenty-three."

"You might be older than that," and I saw a twinkle in his eye. "Let me speak plainly, young master. It is long since I met a youth of twenty-three with so much sense."

There was so much of wheedling in his voice that I was put on my guard again. What he had failed to do by threats he would accomplish by flattery.

"One need not be young to be a fool," I replied.

He darted another angry glance at me, and then seemed on the point of uttering a savage threat. But he mastered this desire, and with a shrug of his shoulders he said—

"Bah! we are playing at see-saw. Let me understand. You came to me with a desire to know certain things. You would know first more of the woman whom you name Constance, then you would know more of the man who sent her here. That springs from young blood and a boy's heart. But that is not all. There is the man's brain as well as the boy's heart to be considered. Let me think of that. You, like others, have heard the story of the king's marriage, but, unlike others, you have been able to locate the place where the secret is kept. You desire to possess it. Why? Because, like a thousand others, you desire to have power over the king. How came you to find out this place? What is the purpose you have in your mind? You will not tell me. Nevertheless I shall find out. What is your name? Well, for the present one name will do as well as another. So far so good. Now, then, for the other side. Here am I. Who am I? Ah, who knows? Elijah Pycroft once lived here. Some say he died and was buried. But was he? If he was, who am I? Am I Elijah Pycroft come to life again? For years this old house hath been shunned as though it were, the house of pestilence. Why? Witches' revels are held here, dark deeds are done here. Spirits of darkness haunt this place. But then men have come here through the day and found nought. What then becomes of the old man who haunts it through the night? Who is he? Who is he? Ha, ha! Thou art a bold youth to come here. But, come, let us to business. Thou art a brave youth, and thou art not without a smattering of wit. Still thou art but a boy with a boy's rattlepate."

He seemed to be talking to himself as much as to me during the latter part of his soliloquy. Evidently he was simply thinking aloud, and trying to understand our relations more clearly.

"Now, then," he went on presently, "you want me to give you certain information, and you want to put your hand upon that which might change the history of the nation. I have given you credit for some wit, young master, but do you think I am such a fool as to tell all this to a nameless boy, because he dared to break in upon my privacy?"

"Well, what would you, Master Pycroft?" said I, for I saw that he had sense on his side. If a bargain was to be made it could not be all on one side. My work was to learn all I could from him, without placing my future in his power.

"I would know this. First, your name and history. Second, the reason which led you to come hither. And third—nay, that is all. Answer me those fully, and you will have answered all I wish to know."

"And if I do?" I responded. "What shall I gain?"

"That for which you have come," he replied eagerly.

"How do I know? Suppose I tell you what you ask, and you have sucked the orange dry—what then? Can I be sure you will tell me what I want to know? The confidence must be mutual, Master Pycroft."

"You have called me by name. Therefore what is there to tell you further?"

"How do I know that you are Master Pycroft? How do I know that you are not some other man, one perhaps a thousand times more dangerous?"

A ghastly pallor came over his face as I spoke. For the first time I had made him fear me. Rightly or wrongly, it came to me that he was not Elijah Pycroft at all, but a man who greatly feared his name becoming known.

"If I am to tell you who I am, tell me who you are," I replied. "If I am to tell you how I was led to believe that you have in your possession the king's marriage contract, you must tell me how you got hold of it. If I am to tell you how I learnt to know anything about the woman you call Constance, you must tell me what you know of her, ay, and the reason why the man believed to be Sir Charles Denman hath such power over her."

"And if I will not?"

"Then several courses are open to me. You have told me I have some wit. Well, I can use that wit. I can find out who the man is who comes to this room during the night, while during the day he is not to be found here."

"Who's to tell you?"

"Perhaps Father Rousseau, who hath a little church at Boulogne," I made answer.

Again the ashy pallor passed across his face, and I saw him tremble.

"He—he doth not know a word of English—that is—how do you know there is such a man?"

I know he would have given much not to have spoken these words, but they had escaped him while under the influence of the words I had spoken.

"Enough to say that I do know," I replied, "and moreover, I am not the only Englishman who can speak the French tongue."

He saw he had taken the wrong road, and he sought to retrace his steps.

"Let us understand each other," he repeated.

"Methinks we are understanding each other with great haste," I replied. "Mark you, I wish to use no harsh methods, otherwise I could easily make many things known to King Charles when he lands at Dover."

"And yet you speak angrily," he cried. "I am an old man, and cannot bear to have an enmity towards any man. I would live peaceably. Besides, my heart goes out to you. Let us act as friends. But I cannot tell you what you want to know without knowing who you are."

"I will tell you this," I replied, "I seek not to harm you. You have a secret; that I know, and I can see my way to finding out that secret."

"But you will not—you must not!"

There was terror in his voice, terror in his eyes, as he spoke.

"Look, look; we will act together. I saw you were a youth of courage and wit the first moment I cast my eyes on you. You are of gentle blood, too. You would not break a promise—that I know. You would stand by a bargain, too. Oh, you would, I know you would. Would you not?"

"If I make a bargain I will stand by it," I replied. "If I make a promise I will keep it."

"Even in the face of death?" he replied.

"A gentleman doth not break a promise because of the fear of death," I answered. "He will keep to it under all circumstances, unless the man to whom he hath made it hath forfeited his right to have the promise kept."

"Ah, then, look here, look at me, straight in the eyes—that's it! If I tell you what you wish to know you will promise me this. First, you will not seek to discover anything more about me. You understand that? You will not try and find out who I am, where I spend my days or my nights. You will say nothing about me to man, woman, nor child. If you hear aught at any time or at any place of the old man who hath been seen under strange circumstances at Pycroft, you will say nought, nor show by sign of any sort that you have ever heard or seen him."

"Well, go on," I replied, as he kept his eyes on me, and waited as if for an answer, "Tell me the other things you wish me to promise."

"You must also promise me that whatever advantage can be gained by what I shall tell you shall be shared by me. Look you, I have the marriage contract—that is, I know where it is. It is all in order. It has the signatures of Charles Stuart, of—of—well, the woman who was called Lucy Walters, and that of the priest whose name you mentioned. I know where it is, and besides me there is no other who knows it. You must not ask how I obtained it. But I know. I know where I put it. It is in a safe place. But if I tell you, you must be my friend. In the time to come I shall need a friend such as you, with a quick brain and a strong arm. You know French, you say?"

"Yes, I know it enough to speak, and to understand the speech of others."

"That is well. You will promise these two things?"

"Let us be clear," I made answer, for I knew that he had not been speaking idle words. I could see by the way his hands trembled, and by the eager gleam in his eyes, that he was deeply in earnest. "You wish me to promise not to learn the secret of your life, to seek to know nothing more about you than I know now?"

"Yes, yes. Nothing, nothing. That is vital."

"And, second, you wish me to promise that whatever advantage may be gained by what I shall find out shall be shared by you?"

"Yes, you state it clearly."

"The first I might promise, but not the second."

"Why?"

"Because you could not share in that which I desire. I desire neither favour nor position at the hands of the king—only justice. This could not affect you. Stay! if I gain my desire, you should never want a home or a friend."

"Neither favour nor position!" he said like a man in astonishment. "A secret like that, and demand neither riches nor honour!"

"Neither," I replied.

"Then what would you do with your power?"

"Justice," I replied.

"You would seek to place the—the boy on the throne?"

"If he is the king's lawful son, yes, when his father dies."

He grasped my hand eagerly.

"But you would do nothing without consulting me first. You must promise that."

"But I might not abide by your counsels."

"Oh, I fear not that. If you come to me before you take action—all will be well. You will see the wisdom of my words."

"Yes, I would promise that," I said slowly, for the full meaning of what I was saying was not clear to me.

"That is well—that is well!"

He spoke like a man from whose shoulders a burden had rolled, and I judged that he was mightily pleased.

"But remember," I said, "in return you promise to tell me what you know of the woman Constance who came to you here last night, and you also promise to place in my hands the marriage contract of the king with Lucy Walters."

"That is, I will take you to the place where it is. I will share with you this secret. And in return you will seek to do justice, justice! And you will do nothing without consulting me. You will also be my friend, and will seek to shelter me. And you are a gentleman. You speak only the truth, and you keep your promises."

The whole question had been settled so easily that I wondered at my good fortune. I had told the man nothing, and yet he had promised to give me the information I coveted. In truth, so easily was my work accomplished that I feared lest I had pledged myself more fully than I realized. And yet all seemed straightforward. I had touched the old man's fear, and he had yielded. His great dread was that I should discover his secret, the secret of his name and identity. Well, what were his name and identity to me? Then I had promised to befriend him. That was more serious. It might be that in making this promise I had undertaken more than I knew. And yet all might be simple. I believed that he was afraid to make use of the secret he guarded, and that he was eager to obtain the services of some one like myself. Besides, nothing could be obtained without risk, and I had made my promise.

He moved the pot from the fire, and then threw some dry wood upon the smouldering embers.

"The night is cold, although summer is approaching fast," he said. "Besides, it is well for us to be warm and comfortable. You will drink wine with me. No? Ah, you fear. You are cautious for one so young, but it is well. We shall need caution as well as courage. There, the fire flames. Draw up that chair, good youth, and let us talk in a friendly way. Our skirmish is over, and we have arranged a truce. Nay, more than that, we have agreed to fight on the same side, and I am content. Do you know that for three days following I have dreamt that I shall have a youth, brave and strong and wise, like you, who shall be my friend? Well, I took every precaution before taking you into my confidence, but now I believe you are the fulfilment of my dream. But it will be easier for us to talk if we each have a name. You can call me Father Solomon; what may I call you?"

"You may call me Master Roland," I made answer.

"Master Roland. Ah, it sounds well. It brings to me memories of great courage, great wisdom, and great fidelity. Master Roland; but Master Roland what?"

"That is enough. Master Roland and nothing else."

"Ah, very good. A sagacious youth. Ha, ha!"

His tone had changed. He evidently desired to be friends; he even regarded me with an air that was almost affectionate. I could have sworn that my presence was in accord with his strongest desires.

He sat on one side of the fire, and I on the other—he with his head sunk between his shoulders, and his long beard almost resting on his knees; I alert and watchful, for as yet I had no confidence in him. Around the walls of the room were strange mystic charts, while on the table were grinning skulls and much peculiar apparatus, of the meaning of which I knew nothing.

"I will e'en drink some water of life," he said, filling a goblet from a bottle which stood on a shelf. "Ah, it warms my blood and cheers my brains! That is well. Now I will tell you the things you desire to know."

He gave me a keen furtive glance as he spoke, but I simply nodded my head and waited for him to proceed.

"You would know more of the fair Constance," he said. "That is natural. She is fair of face, and hath a sweet voice; but, Master Roland, take my advice and seek not her company. You cannot help her. She is in danger of her life, and a price is set upon her head!"

"What hath she done?" I asked.

"Many things. She is the daughter of Master John Leslie, who is the bosom friend of Master Hugh Peters, who was friend and chaplain of Oliver Cromwell. Master John Leslie hated the late king more than any man in the kingdom, and took a principal part in the beheading of Charles. He is a great Independent, Master Roland, and he gave his daughter in marriage to Sir Charles Denman, a man old enough to be her father, but who is also a great Independent, and who fears as much as he hates the thought of the coming of Charles II."

He hesitated here, and looked towards me as if he expected me to speak, but I held my peace, for I knew he was only at the beginning of his story.

"Do you not know the rest?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "I know nothing."

He heaved a sigh like one well satisfied. "Ah, thou art a simple youth, after all," he said; "thou knowest nought of what hath been taking place."

"Well, tell me," I said sharply, for I grew impatient at his slowness.

"Oh yes, I will tell thee. It is a part of the bargain, and I will tell thee. When it was known that General Monk seemed to favour the coming of the new king, Master Leslie, Sir Charles Denman, and his wife conceived a scheme for the murdering of Monk. They believed they would be doing good service. They knew that if Charles came back, in spite of all the promises he might make, it would go hard with those who took part in the death of the new king's father. The question was, who was to do the deed? The presence of Master Leslie or Sir Charles Denman, men known to hate the royalty, would destroy any chance of success. So they settled upon the wife of Sir Charles, whose person was unknown either to Monk or his retainers. Well, the plan was carried out, Master Roland; that is, the attempt was made. The woman, never dreaming of disobeying her husband and also mad with fear as to what should take place if Charles Stuart came back, attempted the deed. If Monk was killed, Lambert would have power—you follow, Master Roland? Oh, it was not a bad plan, and had it succeeded—well, methinks there would not be at this moment a gaping crowd waiting to welcome another Stuart. But it did not succeed—that is, not fully. Mark you, she did succeed in reaching the room where Monk lay asleep. She stabbed young James Carew, who acted as Monk's secretary, ay, and so badly that he hath not yet recovered; but Monk awoke before she was able to harm him much. Oh, but she made a desperate fight. She wounded Monk in the arm, and fled. Moreover, so cleverly had she arranged everything that she managed to escape, and although every attempt hath been made, she hath not yet been captured."

"But how dare she ride abroad?" I cried.

"That woman would dare anything," cried the old man. "Besides, Monk described a woman different from the beautiful Constance. You see, she had taken steps to alter her appearance before she attempted the deed. Nevertheless, the thing hath been traced to her. Master John Leslie is even now in disgrace, while spies be everywhere trying to track down Sir Charles Denman and his wife. Not that guilt hath been proved against Sir Charles on that count, nevertheless his life is not worth ten groats."

"But how dare he ride to the Barley Sheaf while it was yet daylight?" I cried. "I saw him myself."

"Sir Charles hath many friends; besides, what kind of man did you see?"

"A tall strong man with an iron-grey beard and a grey ashen countenance; one who speaks with a rough harsh voice."

"Sir Charles hath a yellow beard, brown hair, and hath a sweet mellow voice," he replied. "Ay, but he is cleverer than any play-actor in London. Besides, he knows that just now the search is somewhat lax, seeing that every one is at Dover waiting to welcome the new King."

"Then—then——"

"Ah, more I may not tell you. Ay, and seek to know no more, Master Roland. The chase cannot last long: she will be taken, and then God have mercy on her!"

"And Sir Charles?"

A cloud crossed his face, and that harsh, cruel look which I had seen in his eyes when first we met came back.

"Who knows?" he snarled. "Who knows, if he——but enough of that, Master Roland. There is something of more importance. There is that for which you came hither; your fate, and perchance mine, depend on that."