He rode up through the village just after dark and in through the gatehouse up to the steps. A man ran to open the door, and as Hubert came through told him that a stranger had ridden down from London and had arrived at mid-day, and that he had been waiting ever since. "I gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and he is at supper now," added the man. Hubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his name called timidly from upstairs, and looking up saw his wife's golden head over the banisters. "Well!" he said. "Ah, it is you. I am so glad." "Who else should it be?" said Hubert, and passed through towards the cloister wing, and opened the door of the little parlour where Isabel and Mistress Margaret had sat together years before, the night of Mr. James' return, and of the girl's decision. A stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great deference. Hubert knew his face, but could not remember his name. "I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial," and he indicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug of wine ruddy in the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously. "I know you, sir," he said, "but I cannot put a name to your face." "Lackington," said the man with a half smile; "Joseph Lackington." Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh. "Why, yes," he said; "I know now. My father's servant." The man bowed. "Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham," he said, with something of dignity in his manner. Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer. "Why, I am pleased to see you," he said. "You have come to see your old--home?" and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs to the blaze, for he was stiff with riding. Lackington instantly sat down too, for his pride was touched. "It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell," he said almost in the tone of an equal, "but on a mission for Sir Francis." Hubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candlelight, with his arm resting easily on the table. He was plainly prosperous, and was even dressed with some distinction; his reddish beard was trimmed to a point; his high forehead was respectably white and bald; and his seals hung from his belt beside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity. Perhaps he was of some importance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsingham was. Hubert sat up a little. "A mission to me?" he said. Lackington nodded. "A few questions on a matter of state." He drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis authorising him as an agent, for one month, and dated three days back; and handed it to Hubert. "I obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. You can trust me implicitly." "Will the business take long?" asked Hubert, handing the paper back. "No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. I have to be at Rye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at Mayfield to-night."