All attention now, she sat quickly upright and looked out again. Yes--there could be no mistake--Copernicus Droop had passed the door and was approaching the principal entrance of the inn on the other side of the courtyard. Phoebe ran quickly to the door and, protecting her eyes with one hand from the flood of brilliant sunlight, she called eagerly after the retreating figure. "Mr. Droop--Mr. Droop!" The figure turned just as Phoebe became conscious of a small crowd of street loafers who had thronged curiously about the courtyard entrance, staring at the new-comer's outlandish garb. She saw the grinning faces turn toward her at sound of her voice, and she shrank back into the hallway to evade their gaze. The man to whom she had called re-crossed the courtyard with eager steps. There was something strange in his gait and carriage, but the strong sunlight behind him made his image indistinct, and besides, Phoebe was accustomed to eccentricities on the part of this somewhat disreputable acquaintance. Her astonishment was therefore complete when, on removing his hat as he entered the hallway, this man in New England attire proved to be a complete stranger. Evidently the gentleman had suffered much from the rudeness of his unwelcome followers, for his face was flushed and his manner constrained and nervous. Bowing slightly, he stood erect just within the door. "Did you do me the honor of a summons, mistress?" said he. The look of amazement on Phoebe's face made him bite his lips with increase of annoyance, for he saw in her emotion only renewed evidence of the ridicule to which he had subjected himself. "I--I crave pardon!" Phoebe stammered. "I fear I took you for another, sir." "For one Copernicus Droop, and I mistake not!" "Do you know him?" she faltered in amazement. "I have met him--to my sorrow, mistress. 'Tis the first time and the last, I vow, that Francis Bacon hath dealt with mountebanks!" "Francis Bacon!" cried Phoebe, delight and curiosity now added to puzzled amazement. "Is it possible that I see before me Sir Francis Bacon--or rather Lord Verulam, I believe." She dropped a courtesy, to which he returned a grave bow. "Nay, good mistress," he replied. "Neither knight nor lord am I, but only plain Francis Bacon, barrister, and Secretary of the Star Chamber." "Oh!" Phoebe exclaimed, "not yet, I see." Then, as a look of grave inquiry settled over Bacon's features, she continued eagerly: "Enough of your additions, good Master Bacon. 'Twere better I offered my congratulations, sir, than prated of these lesser matters." "Congratulations! Good lady, you speak in riddles!" Smiling, she shook her head at him, looking meaningly into his eyes. "Oh, think not _all_ are ignorant of what you have so ably hidden, Master Bacon," she said. "Can it be that the author of that wondrous play I saw here given but yesternight can be content to hide his name behind that of a too greatly favored player?"