Mr. Alban, about half-past nine o’clock, had finished unstrapping his luggage.  It was of the most innocent description, and contained nothing that all the world might not see.  He had made arrangements that articles of another kind should come over from Rheims under the care of one of the “servants,” whose baggage would be less suspected.  The distribution would take place in a day or two.  These articles comprised five sets of altar vessels, five sets of mass-vestments, made of a stuff woven of all the liturgical colours together, a dozen books, a box of medals, another of Agnus Deis—­little wax medallions stamped with the figure of a Lamb supporting a banner—­a bunch of beads, and a heavy little square package of very thin altar-stones.

As he laid out the suit of clothes that he proposed to wear next day, there was a rapping on his door.

“Mr. Babington is come—­sir.” (The last word was added as an obvious afterthought, in case of listeners.)

Robin sprang up; the door was opened by his “servant,” and Anthony came in, smiling.

* * * * *

Mr. Anthony Babington had broadened and aged considerably during the last five years.  He was still youthful-looking, but he was plainly a man and no longer a boy.  And he presently said as much for his friend.

“You are a man, Robin,” he said.—­“Why, it slipped my mind!”

He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kissed the palms of the hands held out to him, as is the custom to do with newly-ordained priests, and Robin murmured a blessing.

Then the two sat down again.

“And now for the news,” said Robin.

Anthony’s face grew grave.

“Yours first,” he said.

So Robin told him.  He had been ordained priest a month ago, at Chalons-sur-Marne....  The college was as full as it could hold....  They had had an unadventurous journey.

Anthony put a question or two, and was answered.

“And now,” said Robin, “what of Derbyshire; and of the country; and of my father?  And is it true that Ballard is taken?”

Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and tried to seem at his ease.

“Well,” he said, “Derbyshire is as it ever was.  You heard of Thomas FitzHerbert’s defection?”

“Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two years ago.”

“Well, he does what he can:  he comes and goes with his wife or without her.  But he comes no more to Padley.  And he scarcely makes a feint even before strangers of being a Catholic, though he has not declared himself, nor gone to church, at any rate in his own county.  Here in London I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe’s company.  But I think that every Catholic in the country knows of it by now.  That is Mistress Manners’ doing.  My sister says there has never been a woman like her.”

Robin’s eyes twinkled.

“I always said so,” he said.  “But none would believe me.  She has the wit and courage of twenty men.  What has she been doing?”