Giovanni shook his head. “He does not write letters. If I could see him I would ask him, but the air of Goslar is not wholesome for me.” He looked at Alan curiously. “Do you think of going there?” “Why not?” Alan returned. “There are rather more than half a score of reasons why not,” said Giovanni, with a little mocking smile. “Do you speak many foreign languages?” “Only French.” “And the moment you opened your mouth they would know you for an Englishman. A foreign glassworker searching for the books of a reputed wizard who made the Hildesheim bronze they are so proud of. That would interest the Imperial spies.” “Vanni,” said Alan, getting up, “I know well what a hare-brained undertaking this must seem to you. But if you see fit to give me any advice, I shall value it.” The young men took their leave of Tomaso and followed the curving shore of the Thames eastward to the city. “Look you,” said Guy presently, “I have a plan--not a very shrewd one perhaps, but you shall judge of that. This clerk, Simon Gastard, knows the country and the language. If his story is true it may be worth looking into. I would not trust him alone with the value of a Scotch penny. But if you were to go with him as my proxy, you would have a chance of talking with this man Giovanni has in mind.” Padraig sniffed. “And Simon would sell ye to the devil if he got his price. 'Tis pure rainbow-chasing, Alan--but I love ye for it.” “Fools are safer than philosophers, in some parts of the world,” observed Giovanni dryly. “And they are commoner everywhere. I hear that the Templars are trying to find a tame wizard who can be kept in a tower to make gold.” “Vanni,” said Guy demurely, “did you ever, in your travels, hear of any one making gold?” “No,” said the Milanese, “but I have known of a score finding fool's gold, and that's the kind you come on at the end of the rainbow. Alan, if you are resolved on this thing, I will give you a token and a password to a man you can trust.” At London Stone they separated, Giovanni turning toward London Bridge, Padraig wending his way to Saint Paul's, Guy and Alan making their way through clamorous narrow streets to the Sign of the Gold Finch. “By Saint Loy,” said the goldsmith suddenly, “here comes the clerk himself. Gastard,” he beckoned to a little threadbare man edging along by the wall, “I have a question to ask about the matter you wot of.” If Alan had heard nothing beforehand he would have taken the man for a fussy, inoffensive little scrivener who would never do more than he was bid--or less. But when they were seated in the private room above the shop, in which Guy kept some of the finest of his gold and silver work, Simon's restless eyes began to glitter, and he reminded Alan of a rat in the dairy.