“Aye,” says I; “he will most likely know where Mr. Godwin may be found.”

“Can you tell me where Sir Peter lives?”

“No; but I can learn easily when I am in the city.”

“If you can, write the address and send him this,” says she, drawing a letter from her breast.  She had writ her husband’s name on it, and now she pressed her lips to it twice, and putting the warm letter in my hand, she turned away, her poor mouth twitching with smothered grief.  I knew then that there was no thought in her mind of seeing her husband again.

I carried the letter with me to the city, wondering what was in it.  I know not now, yet I think it contained but a few words of explanation and farewell, with some prayer, maybe, that she might be forgiven and forgotten.

Learning where Sir Peter Lely lived, I myself went to his house, and he not being at home, I asked his servant if Mr. Godwin did sometimes come there.

“Why, yes, sir, he was here but yesterday,” answers he.  “Indeed, never a day passes but he calls to ask if any one hath sought him.”

“In that case,” says I, slipping a piece in his ready hand, and fetching out Moll’s letter, “you will give him this when he comes next.”

“That I will, sir, and without fail.  But if you would see him, sir, he bids me say he is ever at his lodging in Holborn, from five in the evening to eight in the morning.”

“’Twill answer all ends if you give him that letter.  He is in good health, I hope.”

“Well, sir, he is and he isn’t, as you may say,” answers he, dropping into a familiar, confidential tone after casting his eye over me to be sure I was no great person.  “He ails nothing, to be sure, for I hear he is ever afoot from morn till even a-searching hither and thither; but a more downhearted, rueful looking gentleman for his age I never see.  ’Twixt you and me, sir, I think he hath lost his sweetheart, seeing I am charged, with Sir Peter’s permission, to follow and not lose sight of any lady who may chance to call here for him.”

I walked back to Greenwich across the fields, debating in my mind whether I should tell Moll of her husband’s distress or not, so perplexed with conflicting arguments that I had come to no decision when I reached home.

Moll spying me coming, from her window in the front of the house, met me at the door, in her cloak and hood, and begged I would take her a little turn over the heath.

“What have you to tell me?” asks she, pressing my arm as we walked on.

“I have given your letter to Sir Peter Lely’s servant, who promises to deliver it faithfully to your husband.”

“Well,” says she, after a little pause of silence, “that is not all.”

“You will be glad to know that he is well in health,” says I, and then I stop again, all hanging in a hedge for not knowing whether it were wiser to speak or hold my tongue.

“There is something else.  I see it in your face.  Hide nothing from me for love’s sake,” says she, piteously.  Whereupon, my heart getting the better of my head (which, to be sure, was no great achievement), I told all as I have set it down here.