"My master's shop is shut with the rest. Aubrey, I saw you last night-- though till now I tried to persuade myself it was not you--in Holborn, leaving the door of the Green Dragon. What do you there?" The answer came blazing with wrath. "You saw--you mean, sneaking, blackguardly traitor of a Dutch shopkeeper! I'll have no rascal spies dogging my steps, and--" "Aubrey," said the quiet voice that made reply, "you know me better than that. I never played the spy on you yet, and I trust you will never give me cause. Yet what am I to think when as I pass along the street I behold you standing at the door of a Pa--" "Hold your tongue!" The closing word was cut sharply in two by that fierce response. It might be a pavior, a pear-monger, or a Papist. Hans was silent until Aubrey had again spoken, which he did in a hard, constrained tone. "I shall go where I please, without asking your leave or any body's else! I am of age, and I have been tied quite long enough to the apron-strings of a parcel of women: but I mean not to cut myself loose from them, only to pass under guidance of a silly lad that hath never a spark of spirit in him, and would make an old woman of me if I gave him leave." Then, in a voice more like his own, he added, "Get you in to your knitting, old Mistress Floriszoon, and tie your cap well o'er your ears, lest the cold wind give you a rheum." "I will go in when you come with me," said Hans calmly. "I will not." "To-night, Aubrey--only just to-night!" "And what for to-night, prithee? I have other business afloat. To-morrow I will maybe look in." Perhaps Aubrey was growing a little ashamed of his warmth, for his voice had cooled down. "We can never do right either to-morrow or yesterday," answered Hans. "To-night is all we have at this present." "I tell you I will not!" The anger mounted again. "I will not be at the beck and call of a beggarly tradesfellow!" "You love better to be at Satan's?" "Take that for your impudence!" There was the sound of a sharp, heavy blow--so heavy that the recipient almost staggered under it. Then came an instant's dead silence: and then a voice, very low, very sorrowful, yet with no anger in it-- "Good-night, Aubrey. I hope you will come to-morrow." And Hans's steps died away in the distance. Left to himself, Aubrey's feelings were far from enviable. He was compelled to recognise the folly of his conduct, as more calculated to fan than deter suspicion; and it sorely nettled him also to perceive that Hans, shopkeeper though he might be, had shown himself much the truer gentleman of the two. But little time was left him to indulge in these unpleasant reflections, for the door behind him was opened by a girl. "Mr Catesby at home?" "Ay, Sir, and Mr Winter is here. Pray you, walk up."