They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam, Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all.

In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.

The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his hand.  All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm, and, smiling, waved his cap.

Nick gave a sharp cry.

Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild swan.

“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and, frightened, she caught him by the hand.  “Why, oh!—­what is it, Nick—­thou art not ill?”

“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee.  “Oh, Master Carew,” he cried, “will ye never leave me go?”

Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently.

“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than Stratford?”

“Oh, Master Carew—­mother’s there!” was the reply.

There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry and were coming down alone.

“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely.

Carew was staring out into the fading sky.  “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the other around Nick’s shoulders.  “None but a good mother could have so good a son.”

“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely.

Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.

They had come to the landing.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MAKING OP A PLAYER

Master Will Shakspere was in town!  The thought ran through Nick Attwood’s head like a half-remembered tune.  Once or twice he had all but sung it instead of the words of his part.  Master Will Shakspere was in town!

Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; for the husband of his mother’s own cousin would see justice done him in spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear—­of that he was sure.

But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of Gaston Carew’s house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole’s uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the bandy-legged man following after him.

Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for the Lord Chamberlain’s company would not be at the Blackfriars play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than hunting for a needle in a haystack.