The officious provincial was not a little uncertain as to the ground upon which he stood. Judging by the demeanor of these gayly-attired gentlemen and the high tone that went with it, he began to fear that the Queen herself had arrived at the Crown Tavern. And his vanity having allowed him to claim a familiarity with the Court when he had never been there in his life, he had merely to be received in audience by her to incur the risk of a grave exposure. “One moment, sir,” he said, desperately. “If this unknown lady is the high personage I take her to be, I have no desire----” But William Kemp, in his ducal trappings, was already away on his errand. Justice Pretyman felt the situation to be growing desperate. And, to make matters worse, the man in the cloak was fain to misread his attitude of mind. “I have not the least doubt, sir,” he said, “that if this lady--whom we shall both do well not to name more explicitly--is informed that you are familiar with the Court, she will gladly give you an audience, although you must please remember she travels incognito.” By this time Justice Pretyman was fully convinced that it was the Queen herself who was lying one night at the Crown Tavern. “You mistake me, sir,” he said, desperately. “I never said that I was familiar with the Court.” “You never said you were familiar with the Court, sir!” The man in the plum-colored cloak was the picture of polite indignation. “But, ods my life, sir! this is a very grave matter.” Justice Pretyman thought so, too. At least, his perspiring red face belied him if he did not. “How I wish, sir,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “you had had the grace to make yourself more explicit. This lady is a bad one to cross, as all the world very well knows.” “Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” said Justice Pretyman, beginning already to wish himself well out of the affair. The richly caparisoned figure of William Kemp emerged with slow dignity from the tavern interior. He bent to the ear of the man in the plum-colored cloak. A good deal of confidential whispering followed, of which Justice Pretyman could only catch the ominous words, “Her Grace.” But it was the man in the plum-colored cloak who addressed the uneasy magistrate. “The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, “this lady does not remember your name, but she hopes she may remember your face. She is not unwilling to grant you an audience of five minutes, but--strictly between ourselves--if you will take the advice of a friend, you will think twice before you run any risk of incurring her august displeasure.” Justice Pretyman’s mind certainly seemed to recognize the wisdom of this sage counsel. And the result of a very little deliberation on his part was that he gathered his men and made off down the street with the least possible delay, leaving the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company to enjoy the triumph of their audacity.