"Alas!" said I, "she is not here. I heard of her indeed not long since in Kent." "Yes, and where?" he asked, getting excited. "'Twas in Canterbury, where she hid from a villain, one Captain Merriman." He looked at me hard; but I looked so simple, and fingered the money so greedily, he suspected naught. "Where is she now?" he asked again. "Look you, Captain," said I, getting close with him, "if you truly mean well by this maiden, I shall tell you where to look for her. Only you must keep it secret, and, above all things, tell it not to this Captain Merriman, who is a very devil, and whom I would like to split with my sword, could I catch him." "Yes, yes," said he, eagerly, "I know him not--where is she?" "In faith," whispered I, "if you seek her, you must be quick, for a week hence she may be flown." "Where is it?" he asked, impatiently. "'Tis--but the name slips me. Yet, your patience, Captain, I have a paper I will fetch." And I left him and wrote hurriedly on a paper. "_Pont-Marie, at Calais in France_." "Look you, Captain," said I, "you are to go to the place named here. 'Tis across seas, in France. I can tell you no better than this paper. I pray you breathe not to the maiden, if you see her, that 'twas I told you where to look for her; for she would be vexed, as would others I know of. And to prove I am honest, here, take thy purse; for I will never touch it till you tell me you have found her and given her the jewel. As for thy service, I will think of that betwixt now and the day I see you again. Therefore, I pray you, appoint no servant meanwhile. And remember, not a word to the maiden how you came to find her." He took me for a simple fool, and went off very content with the paper in his pocket, and leaving the purse with me. So I knew I was rid of him and his fellow dog, Merriman, for well-nigh two weeks; and by that time the maiden and her party would be beyond all reach. As to what would happen when they returned from their trip,--well, I had two hands and a sword as well as others. But whether they came back or not, I know not; for weeks went by, and I forgot all about them, when one night, as my master and I worked secretly, with closed door, at the press, I feeling very desolate to know that the whole house was empty, and that were I to open the parlour door, there would meet me no merry note of singing from a sweet voice within--while we worked thus, I say, there came a rustling at the threshold, and presently a piece of paper was thrust under the door. By the dim rush light we took and read it. It said simply this-- _Have a care, Walgrave! The Wolfe prowleth o' nights_. "What make you of that?" asked I of my master.