'One dark December day - too dark to judge colour - we was
all sitting and talking round the fires in the chapel (you heard good
talk there), when Bob Brygandyne bustles in and - "Hal, you're
sent for," he squeals. I was at Torrigiano's feet on a pile of
put-locks, as I might be here, toasting a herring on my knife's
point. 'Twas the one English thing our Master liked - salt herring.

'"I'm busy, about my art," I calls.


'"Art?" says Bob. "What's Art compared to your scroll-work
for the SOVEREIGN? Come."

'"Be sure your sins will find you out," says Torrigiano. "Go
with him and see." As I followed Bob out I was aware of Benedetto,
like a black spot when the eyes are tired, sliddering up
behind me.

'Bob hurries through the streets in the raw fog, slips into a
doorway, up stairs, along passages, and at last thrusts me into a
little cold room vilely hung with Flemish tapestries, and no
furnishing except a table and my draft of the SOVEREIGN's scrollwork.
Here he leaves me. Presently comes in a dark, long-nosed
man in a fur cap.

'"Master Harry Dawe?" said he.

'"The same," I says. "Where a plague has Bob Brygandyne gone?"