Cuthbert thanked honest Jacob for his goodwill and for his warning, but he could not see that it was needed.  He was but an obscure youth, of no note in the world.  He had no dealings with any of those plots of which men were whispering, and he could not see how any act of his could raise suspicion of any sort against him.  He was growing intensely curious about the seething fire beneath the outer crust of quietness and security.  If some great plot were hatching, if some great upheaval were at hand, why might not he scent out something beforehand?  Why might not he discover what was baffling the sagacity of others?  He had no wish to be a spy or an informer; he had too much generous sympathy with the oppressed for that.  But he was intensely curious about it all, and he felt as though his youth and obscurity would be his best protection if he chose to make some investigations on his own account.

The old eager thirst for knowledge was coming upon him.  The old love of adventure, which had run him into many perils already, had not been quenched by his recent experiences.  Success had crowned his labours in the forest; why should that success desert him now?  And then the thought came to him that he might by chance discover something which might be of use to his own kinsmen.  He knew that Sir Richard Trevlyn and his son Philip—­Petronella’s lover—­were in London.  Might it not be possible that they had better be elsewhere at such a time?  Jacob’s words about the Trevlyns might perchance be true.  He had heard his uncle say the same before.  If any possible peril should be menacing them, how gladly would he find it out and warn them in time!  It began to appear to the youth in the light of a duty to pursue his investigation, and it was just such a task as best appealed to his ardent and fiery temperament.

But he scarce knew what the first step had better be; so he gave up the day following to seeking out Lord Culverhouse, and learning from him what was the feeling in high quarters.

Culverhouse greeted him warmly, and at once begged him to ride out with him into the pleasant regions where the parks now stand, which were then much larger, and only just taking any semblance of park, being more like fields with rides running across them.  Each succeeding king did something for the improvement of this region, though the open ground became considerably diminished as stately buildings grew up around it.

“Cuthbert,” said the Viscount, when they had left the busy streets and were practically alone and out of earshot of any chance passers by, “dost thou know that the matter of our secret wedding is now known?”

“I heard so from Mistress Kate, who has been sent away from home in disgrace, but is bearing her captivity cheerfully, with my sister for her companion.”

Culverhouse was eager to hear everything Cuthbert could tell him, and was delighted that his lady love was happy in her honourable captivity.  When he had asked every question he could think of, he went on with his own side of the story.