It may be well that Master Bates--who had come slinking after that chair with three tough bullies following some distance behind him, and another three following at a still greater distance--was something of a judge of feminine nature, and so came to the conclusion that it would perhaps be best part of an hour before Miss Farquharson emerged again. He had dark, wicked little eyes that observed a deal, and very wicked wits that were keenly alert. He had noted the little crowd about the steps of Paul’s, he had heard the burden of the preacher’s message, and those wicked inventive wits of his had perceived here a stage very opportunely set for the nasty little comedy which he was to contrive on His Grace of Buckingham’s behalf. It remained to bring the chief actor--the Duke, himself--at once within reasonable distance of the scene. Provided this could be contrived, all should now flow merrily as a peal of wedding-bells. Master Bates slipped like a shadow into a porch, produced a pencil and tablets, and set himself laboriously to scrawl three or four lines. He folded his note, as one of the bullies, summoned by an unostentatious signal, joined him there in that doorway. With the note Bates slipped a crown into the man’s hand. “This at speed to his grace,” he snapped. “Take a coach, man, and make haste. Haste!” The fellow was gone in a flash, and Bates, leaning back in the shadow, leisurely filled a pipe and settled down to his vigil. A little lantern-jawed fellow he was, with leathery, shaven cheeks, and long, wispy black hair that hung like seaweed about his face and scraggy neck. He was dressed in rusty black, in almost clerkly fashion, which, together with his singular countenance and his round rather high-crowned hat, gave him an air of fanatical piety. Miss Farquharson made no haste. An hour passed, and the half of a second, before she came forth at last, followed by the mercer, laden with parcels, which, together with herself, were packed into the chair. The chairmen took up, and, whilst the mercer bowed himself double in obsequious gratitude to the famous actress, they swung along westward by the way they had come. Providence, it would almost seem, was on the Duke’s side that morning to assist the subtle Bates in the stage-management of the affair. For it was not more than half an hour since the removal of that citizen who had been smitten with the pestilence at the very foot of Paul’s steps when Miss Farquharson’s chair came past the spot, making its way through a fear-ridden crowd fallen into voluble groups to discuss the event. She became conscious of the sense of dread about her. The grave, stricken faces of the men and women standing there in talk, with occasional loudly uttered lamentations, drew her attention and set her uneasily wondering and speculating upon the reason. Suddenly dominating all other sounds, a harsh, croaking voice arose somewhere behind but very close to the chair: