* * * * *
It was a pathetic old figure that was hobbling towards him. He seemed a
man of near seventy years old, with a close-cropped beard and spectacles
on his nose, and he carried himself heavily and ploddingly. Robin argued
to himself that it must be a kindly man who would come out at this
hour--perhaps the one hour he had to himself--to visit a poor dependant.
Yet all this was sheer conjecture; and, as the old man came near, he saw
there was something besides kindliness in the eyes that met his own.
He saluted boldly and deferentially.
"Mr. Bourgoign," he said in a low voice, "I must speak five minutes with
you. And I ask you to make as if you were my friend."
The old man stiffened like a watch-dog. It was plain that he was on his
guard.
"I do not know you, sir."
"I entreat you to do as I ask. I am a priest, sir. I entreat you to take
my hand as if we were friends."
A look of surprise went over the physician's face.
"You can send me packing in ten minutes," went on Robin rapidly, at the
same time holding out his hand. "And we will talk here in the road, if
you will."
There was still a moment's hesitation. Then he took the priest's hand.
"I am come straight from London," went on Robin, still speaking clearly,
yet with his lips scarcely moving. "A fortnight ago I talked with Mr.
Babington."
The old man drew his arm close within his own.
"You have said enough, or too much, at present, sir.
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