From a consideration of the man lying upstairs sick with the pain of an ugly wound, it was a natural transition to the sole author and inspirer of the whole tragic business. The house of Simon Heriot was but ten miles away. And if hope of any kind was to be derived from the nearness of the chief actors in the sordid drama, it seemed to lie in this fact. Quite apart from the pass of Sir John Feversham, the playwright was too wise a man to approve the wild scheme that Gervase had formed, which indeed was the cause of his return to Oxford. The risk would be great, the gain slight and uncertain. But indirectly, it was Gervase’s crude plan which now set the subtle brain to work. Many were the questions Shakespeare asked touching the character, the habits, the mode of life of Simon Heriot. Among other things he learned was that this man was of a morbid imagination, holding himself aloof from his kind. Of late, he had mixed but little in the world. It was even thought by some that his mind had at last turned against itself, and that it had begun to show signs of a failing sanity. It was not at first that the significance of these things revealed themselves to the playwright. It was not at first that he realized the use to which they might be put. Unconsciously, however, they were stored in his brain against the time they should be cast into the crucible of its invention. Shakespeare learned much that evening from his talk with Gervase Heriot. Keen as had been his pity for him from the moment he had first heard his tragic history, their present intercourse deepened it rather than made it less. He was quick to recognize the depth and the valor of this young man’s soul, and that of the great-hearted girl who had dared all to save him from the scaffold. Theirs was a wonderful story, all compact of the very life-blood of drama. And when Shakespeare was told very simply that upon the arrival of that hour in which they could no longer hope to put off their foes, they had a plan whereby they might die together, such a declaration had the power to thrill the heart of one who spent his life in the devising of plays. Long they talked together. On the one side was an intense sympathy, a fervent pity; on the other, a clear and manful courage that was not afraid to trust its instincts. And in this case those instincts were to put implicit faith in this stranger by the wayside, the power of whose personality was so compelling. It happened about midnight, while Gervase and the player still talked together, that a traveler came into the inn parlor. Shakespeare saw at once that it was the falconer returned weary and despondent from his quest. The man came over to where they sat. His face and bearing were very tragic. “You don’t happen to have seen anything of those gypsies I spoke to you about?” he said to the player. Shakespeare shook his head.