Still, before that fateful Thursday dawned, there happened a sinister thing. Late in the evening of Wednesday, Shakespeare returned alone to his lodgings. He had been ceaselessly occupied during the day with the final preparations for the morrow. Everything was now in readiness for the journey to Richmond, a few hours hence. The playwright was feeling dog-tired and had a longing for rest, as he turned the key in the door of his dwelling. He was surprised to find a light showing through the shutters of the little parlor in which he wrote and read. The room, it was true, had been placed at the service of Heriot and Mistress Feversham. But the hour was so late, that he had supposed they had retired long ago to their rest. As a matter of fact, this was the case. But when the playwright entered the parlor, he found a man sitting there in expectation of his arrival. It was a warm evening of July, but the face and the form of the visitor were hidden in the folds of a voluminous cloak. The unbidden guest, whoever he might be, received Shakespeare coolly enough. He did not even take the trouble to rise from his chair when the poet came into the room, but merely held up his hand as if to imply a need of caution and secrecy, and then in a tone of studied insolence told him to close the door. Shakespeare was quick to recognize the voice of his visitor. The man was Sir Robert Grisewood. “To what is due this honor?” said the poet with a courtesy that was deeply ironical. He knew well enough that his visitor was not likely to be inspired by any good motive. But long ago he had taken the measure of the man, and he did not fear him in the least. Indeed, for that matter, he feared no man, but with that prudence which springs from an intimate knowledge of the world, he was at once upon his guard. “You do well to ask that question, my friend,” said Grisewood, unmuffling his face in order that Shakespeare not only might see it, but that he might also be disconcerted by the sight of it. “What is your business with me, Sir Robert Grisewood?” said Shakespeare, coldly and contemptuously. “I will tell you.” The eyes of the unwelcome visitor were full of menace. “I will tell you in a very few words, good Master Actor and Versifier. Your precious life is not worth five minutes’ purchase.” The dramatist was wholly unaffected by the announcement. “That may be so,” he said, coldly. And he gave his shoulders a shrug, which implied that the information was of very little consequence. “Shall I tell you why it is not?” “As you please.” “Well, to be brief and round with you, good Master Poet, the whole of your doings, your exits and your entrances, as you would say, of the past fortnight are perfectly well known to me. And I would fain inform you that, at this moment, you are harboring under this roof the notorious traitor, Gervase Heriot, and also the young daughter of Sir John Feversham, who conspired with him to break prison.”