Soon or late, the news would have to be told her. At least, that was the view Shakespeare had now come to hold. But this was not the season for the Constable’s daughter to learn what had happened. As the playwright had lain sleepless that night in his bed, with the eager brain racing courser-like over the whole matter, the core of a plan had come to him. It was little more than a shadow at present. It had yet to take shape, yet to acquire a hue of reality, but it might be that under providence it would develop into a scheme that could offer some hope of their deliverance. Yet he must have time in which to mature it; and if by a mischance the fugitives learned at this moment Sir John Feversham’s peril, nothing was more likely than that a self-sacrificing impulse would cause them to give themselves up to justice before anything could be done to help them. All that day the falconer hung disconsolate about the Crown Tavern. There was reason to believe that the fugitives were still in the vicinity of Oxford, but for the time being all further trace of them had failed. A number of persons in and about the town appeared to have seen the young gypsies. Among others, John Davenant, the landlord of the Crown, had a clear recollection of having seen them early the previous day on the bench outside the tavern door. They could not be far away, yet for the present the falconer’s inquiries yielded no result. Shakespeare was careful to keep Gervase and Anne out of the man’s way. He hardly let them out of his sight, and during the performance that afternoon they were given a secluded corner in one of the galleries where they could enjoy the play without being seen by the audience. The piece was “Romeo and Juliet,” and its success was as great as that which had been gained on the previous day by “The Merchant of Venice.” News of that brilliant performance had spread, so that the press in the inn yard was greater than ever, there being hardly room to squeeze another soul inside. This play was finely acted, and it was received with bursts of rapturous applause. It was part of the scheme that was being formed in Shakespeare’s mind that Anne should play _Rosalind_ before the Queen. He knew that such an innovation would be perilous, and he foresaw that it would arouse the opposition of his colleagues. But that shy and slender grace was the ideal of his fancy. He knew now that it was the sight of her in hawking dress in the tailor’s shop that had set his mind upon the forest of Arden. Parflete was an efficient actor, but no member of the company could have the charm and delicacy of this gracious thing, if only she could be taught to play the part at so short a notice.