The song stopped short.  “Who’s there?” called the voice of the quiet man.

“’Tis I, Tom Heywood. there’s to-do for players at the Falcon Inn.  Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW

It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day.

Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and
Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn.

Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with them at the table under the little window.  The play was a comedy of a wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through happy thoughts of going home.

Sunday had passed like a wondrous dream.  He was free.  Master Carew was done for.  On Saturday morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick was going with him—­going to Stratford—­going home!

The comedy-reading went on.  Master Burbage, his moving face alive, leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, “Fine, fine!” under his breath.  Master Pope was making faces suited to the words, not knowing that he did so.  Nick watched him, fascinated.

A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door.  It was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral’s company.  He looked worried and as if he had not slept.  His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes hung in little bags.  He squinted so that he might see from the broad daylight outside into the darker room.

“Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark,” said he, quickly, seeing Nick beside the door.

Nick drew back.  It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.

“He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway.  He is in Newgate prison.  Wilt come?”

Nick shook his head.

“But he says indeed he must see thee.  Come, Skylark, I will bring thee back.  I am no kidnapper.  Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of thee.  ’Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man.”

“Thou’lt surely fetch me back?”

“Here, Master Will Shakspere,” called the Admiral’s player; “I am to fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter.  My name is Jones—­Dick Jones, of Henslowe’s company.  Burbage knows me.  I’ll bring him back.”

Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, impatient of interruption.  Nick arose and went with Jones.