"Surely not," she said, "if you know what they are."

He gave her an odd look as he lifted his tea-cup.

"The Queen's jester is a privileged person," he said. "When the door of
her pleasaunce is closed to him he climbs up and looks over the wall."

"Not always a discreet proceeding, I fear," Anne remarked.

"Discretion, Lady Carfax, is but another term for decrepitude. I have
detected no symptoms of the disease at present." He drained his tea with
an arrogant gesture and handed the cup for more. "Which is the exact
reason why I have no intention of remaining on the top of the wall," he
said. "I will have a stronger dose this time, please."

An unsteady hand began to fumble at the door, and Anne glanced up with a
start. The blood rose to her face. "I think it is my husband," she said,
in a low voice.

Nap did not turn his head or answer. He sat motionless, still staring at
her, till the door began to open. Then, with a sudden, lithe movement, he
rose and kicked the hassock to one side.

A big man in riding-dress tramped heavily into the room, and stopped in
the centre, peering before him under scowling brows. Not the kindest of
critics could have called Sir Giles Carfax handsome, though every feature
in his face was well formed. The blotchy complexion of the man and his
eyes of glaring malice marred him all too completely. He looked about
fifty, to judge by his iron-grey hair and moustache, but he might have
been less. He had immensely powerful shoulders that stooped a little.