She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. "You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. On all hands Jack was cheered, and Jonathan hooted. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. . ‘But a spy I am not.
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