Beyond this room, which was for public entertainment, there was a smaller one, opening into it by a low door, in one panel of which was a little window, a mere aperture, and through this the occupant of the private apartment might survey the outer room with slight risk of being discovered,--a convenient peep-hole, where mine host could spy upon his guests at pleasure. It was a small place and nearly filled by a table and two chairs. On opposite sides of this table were seated now two men engaged in earnest conversation. The tapers burning between them shed their light on the faces of both. To the right sat a little man clad in a russet cloak, the wizard Sanders; on the left, was quite a different person. The stranger was tall and well made, fully forty years of age, and with a face that, while it was handsome in a coarse, bold fashion, was also rather sinister in expression, and with a sensual mouth and chin. He was very dark, his hair, already touched with gray on the temples, accentuating the olive tint of his complexion, and his eyes being light gray, the effect was not altogether pleasing. Yet his features were fine and only marred by the scar of a sword-cut, which almost obliterated his left eyebrow. His dress was of the richest, his cloak covered with gold embroidery, and the green satin doublet slashed with white brocade, while his hands, white and soft as a woman’s, were jewelled. His embroidered gloves lay on the table beside his rapier, the hilt of which was beautiful in workmanship and glistened with precious stones. He sat with his elbow on the table, leaning his head upon his hand and listening to the wizard, who was speaking in low tones, though no ear could hear him but his companion’s. “The trump card is gone,” he said calmly, his keen eyes watching the other narrowly, “but we have yet the Lady Mary.” “Tush!” ejaculated his friend, “what of that? ’Tis said the king may have a boy.” The wizard shook his head with a slow smile. “Never,” he said composedly. “Henry has ill luck with his men children. This gay lady is falling out of favor, too; another star riseth yonder.” “Ay, so they say,” retorted the other, gloomily; “but the change is like to bring us small comfort, if it comes. We shall have no merry time until we get the base blood out of the council; yonder hell-hound tracks us by the scent. I would he were begging again at the door of Master Friskyball.” “Look you, Sir Barton,” rejoined the wizard, “my lord privy seal is more like to pull you by the pate than you him;” and Sanders laughed with wicked amusement as he eyed his listener. “Bear in mind the fate of Ap Ryce, and be not too forward. Cromwell is beating the bush for traitors, and if he finds you,” again the little man laughed unpleasantly, “a short shrift and your head would grin on London Bridge.”