The tailor lowered his voice to a whisper. It was as if he feared to be overheard. “They do say ’a has plotted with the Papishers, who are always contriving against the Queen.” “What’s the name of the unlucky youth?” “His name is Mr. Gervase Heriot.” “Mr. Gervase Heriot! He is a kinsman of my Lord Southampton.” A look of keen pity came upon the player’s face. “I know the lad well enough. He sat on our stage at The Globe less than two months ago. An open, cheerful youth incapable of plotting against aught save a flask of canaries, if I’m any judge of nature. Poor young man. Master Tidey, this is a very tragic matter.” “Sad enough, Master Shakespeare, sad enough,” said the tailor, stitching busily at the coffin-cloth. The actor passed a delicately shaped hand, the hand of a poet, across his face. “More than once I have marked the lad as he sat in the playhouse,” he said. “’A was a proper neat youth. ’A had a subtle tongue and a very flaming eye. ’A was german-cousin to Perseus, him that bestrid the winged horse. And now--with the taste of milk yet on his lips!” The player ceased abruptly, as if overcome by a surge of feeling. For a time he was silent. The tragic end of a youth of bright promise appeared to weigh upon him sorely. Master Nicholas Tidey, whose skill with the needle and shears had spread far and wide over the midland counties, was, like the player, a Stratford man. In a rather shamefaced way, the tailor was a little inclined to be proud of his fellow-townsman. To be sure his calling was hardly that of a Christian. On occasion his speech was apt to be a little disorderly, it even verged upon the fantastical, but Master Tidey was bound to admit that there must be something in the fellow. For one thing, rumor had it that he had recently bought New Place, the largest house in his native town. Such a fact spoke for itself, even if a wise man was inclined to discount the glowing reports of the play-actor’s ever-growing success which reached him continually from London. But, even as far back in the world’s history as the age of Elizabeth, “Nothing succeeds like success” was a maxim known to the philosophers. “They do tell me, Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor, “that some of these harlotry pieces of yours have been approved by the Queen.” The playwright could not help smiling a little at a certain uneasiness which was apparent in the tone of his friend, in spite of the fact that that honest man tried very hard to conceal it. “If I said they had not, Master Tidey,” he answered, with dry modesty, “I might be speaking less than I know. On the other hand, if I said that they had, a needy writer for the stage might be claiming more than becomes the least of her Majesty’s servants.”