At last, about four o’clock of the afternoon, came the dread summons to the Queen. It was conveyed by the Lord Treasurer in person. There was nothing to learn from that lofty and formal mien. The measured deportment, the detached air told nothing. He who so often was called to be the arbiter of life and death in the daily routine of his high office betrayed not the least emotion. Indeed, the grim question now at issue appeared to touch him not at all. The Queen was taking her ease on a gorgeous gilt couch. One of her ladies, who was working a sampler in silk, was seated on a low stool at her side. She was a dark and handsome young woman with restless, brilliant and piercing eyes. As soon as the playwright entered the room, they met his in a kind of challenge, half of cynical interest, half of mockery. A slow, rather insolent smile curled her lips. For a very brief instant, the poet was obviously disconcerted. But almost at once, he had exercised the whole force of his will and was able to attend that other woman who held his life in her hand. The Queen sat up on her couch. “Master Shakespeare,” she said, “I have to inform you that the man, Grisewood, is dead.” “Dead!” gasped the player. “Yes,” said the Queen, “he is dead. He has been found at his lodging with his throat cut. And there can be little doubt, as I am given to understand, that he has died by his own hand.” The player stood in silence, looking straight in front of him. There came a violent surge and onrush of his thoughts. In the sensitive and generous mind, relief for the good riddance of a bad man was tempered with an emotion of pity for an end so ignoble. “I have to say this, Master Shakespeare.” The voice of the Queen, which sounded very far away, broke in upon the heavy tumult of his thoughts. “The death of this man, Grisewood, removed a most material witness. He alone could have proved or disproved your statement.” By now, however, the playwright had regained full command of himself. Calmly, he sustained the force of the Queen’s gaze. The somber yet wonderful eyes were fixed on the raddled and rather peevish face. “Under the favor of your grace,” he said, speaking very slowly and in the manner of one who chooses his words with the utmost care, “Sir Robert Grisewood has already attested to the truth of the statement which I have made.” “In what way, sirrah? By what means?” said the Queen, sharply. “By the taking of his own life,” said the playwright. “It is a clear confession of the knowledge that he is undone.” “How should he have any such knowledge?” “He was present yesterday, your grace, in the pavilion, when I rehearsed the story of his crime. I marked his livid face among the audience. It is one I shall never forget.” The Queen nodded her head, but did not speak.