He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. “Why?” He inquired. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. It had gone with the rest. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. There's our young friend upstairs. "A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Shotbolt.
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