Robin checked his horse before a man whose face seemed kindly, and who saluted courteously the fine gentleman who looked about with such an air.

“My horse is dead-spent,” he said curtly.  “Is there an inn here where my man and I can find lodging?”

The man shook his head, looking at the horse compassionately.  He had the air of a groom about him.

“I fear not, sir, not within five miles; at least, not with a room to spare.”

“This is Chartley, is it not?” asked the priest, noticing that the next man, too, was listening.

“Aye, sir.”

“Can you tell me if my friend Mr. Bourgoign lodges in the house, or without the gates?”

“Mr. Bourgoign, sir?  A friend of yours?”

“I hope so,” said Robin, smiling, and keeping at least within the letter of truth.

The man mused a moment.

“It is possible he might help you, sir.  He lodges in the house; but he comes sometimes to see a woman that is sick here.”

Robin demanded where she lived.

“At the last house, sir—­a little beyond the rest.  She is one of her Grace’s kitchen-women.  They moved her out here, thinking it might be the fever she had.”

This was plainly a communicative fellow; but the priest thought it wiser not to take too much interest.  He tossed the man a coin and rode on.

* * * * *

The last house was a little better built than the others, and stood further back from the road.  Robin dismounted here, and, with a nod to Mr. Arnold, who was keeping his countenance admirably, walked up to the door and knocked on it.  It was opened instantly, as if he were expected, but the woman’s face fell when she saw him.

“Is Mr. Bourgoign within?” asked the priest.

The woman glanced over him before answering, and then out to where the horses waited.

“No, sir,” she said at last.  “We were looking for him just now....”  (She broke off.) “He is coming now,” she said.

Robin turned, and there, walking down the road, was an old man, leaning on a stick, richly and soberly dressed in black, wearing a black beaver hat on his head.  A man-servant followed him at a little distance.

The priest saw that here was an opportunity ready-made; but there was one more point on which he must satisfy himself first, and what seemed to him an inspiration came to his mind.

“He looks like a minister,” he said carelessly.

A curious veiled look came over the woman’s face.  Robin made a bold venture.  He smiled full in her face.

“You need not fear,” he said.  “I quarrel with no man’s religion;” and, at the look in her face at this, he added:  “You are a Catholic, I suppose?  Well, I am one too.  And so, I suppose, is Mr. Bourgoign.”

The woman smiled tremulously, and the fear left her eyes.

“Yes, sir,” she said.  “All the friends of her Grace are Catholics, I think.”