Marjorie drew a breath of relief.  She did not question Mr. Bassett’s judgment.  But she had had an uneasy discomfort in her heart till he had spoken so plainly.

“Well, sir,” she said, “that is what I chiefly came for.  I wished to know if I could do aught for Mr. Thomas or his wife; and—­”

“You can do a great deal for his wife,” said he.  “You can keep her quiet and comfort her.  She needs it, poor soul!  I have told her for her comfort that we shall have Thomas out again in a month—­God forgive me for the lie!”

Marjorie stood up; and the men rose with her.

“Why, what is that?” she said; and went swiftly to the window; for the noise of the crying of the cheeses and the murmur of voices had ceased all on a sudden.

Straight opposite the window where she stood was the tiled flight of stairs that ran up from the market-place to the first floor of the Guildhall, a great building where the business of the town was largely done, and where the magistrates sat when there was need; and a lane that was clear of booths and carts had been left leading from that door straight across the square, so that she could see the two little brobonets—­or iron guns—­that guarded the door on either side.  It was up this lane that she looked, and down it that there advanced a little procession, the very sight of which, it seemed, had stricken the square to silence.  Already the crowd was dividing from end to end, ranging itself on either side—­farmers’ men shambled out of the way and turned to see; women clambered on the carts holding up their children to see, and from across the square came country-folk running, that they too might see.  The steps of the Cross were already crowded with sightseers.

Yet, to outward sight, the little procession was ordinary enough.  First came three or four of the town-guard in livery, carrying their staves; then half a dozen sturdy fellows; then a couple of dignified gentlemen—­one of them she knew:  Mr. Roger Columbell, magistrate of the town—­and then, walking all alone, the figure of a man, tall and thin, a little rustily, but very cleanly dressed in a dark suit, who carried his head stooping forward as if he were looking on the ground for something, or as if he deprecated so much notice.

Marjorie saw no more than this clearly.  She did not notice the group of men that followed in case protection were needed for the agent of the Council, nor the crowd that swirled behind.  For, as the solitary figure came beneath the windows she recognised the man whom she had seen once in the Tower of London.

“God smite the man!” growled a voice in her ear.  “That is Topcliffe, going to the prison, I daresay.”

And as Marjorie turned her pale face back, she saw the face of kindly Mr. Bassett, suffused and convulsed with fury.

CHAPTER IX

I