The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
“The letter, no doubt, was in an outer wrapper, on which there would be a superscription—the name of the person to whom the letter was addressed?” he half questioned, and Luttrell, who saw the drift of the question, nodded gravely.
“No doubt,” said Ruth.
“Now you will acknowledge, I am sure, madam, that such a wrapper would be a document of the greatest importance, as important, indeed, as the letter itself, since we could depend upon it finally to clear up this point on which we differ. You will admit so much, I think?”
“Why, yes,” she answered, but her voice faltered a little, and her glance was not quite so fearless. She, too, saw at last the pit he had dug for her. He leaned forward, smiling quietly, his voice impressively subdued, and launched the bolt that was to annihilate the credibility of the story she had told.
“Can you, then, explain how it comes that that wrapper has been suppressed? Can you tell us how—the matter being as you state it—in very self-defence against the dangers of keeping such a letter, your brother did not also keep that wrapper?”
Her eyes fell away from his face, they turned to Albemarle, who sat scowling again, and from him they flickered unsteadily to Phelips and Luttrell, and lastly, to Richard, who, very white and with set teeth, stood listening to the working of his ruin.
“I…I do not know,” she faltered at last.
“Ah!” said Trenchard, drawing a deep breath. He turned to the Bench. “Need I suggest what was the need—the urgent need—for suppressing that wrapper?” quoth he. “Need I say what name was inscribed upon it? I think not. Your Grace’s keen insight, and yours, gentlemen, will determine what was probable.”
Sir Rowland now stood forward, addressing Albemarle. “Will Your Grace permit me to offer my explanation of this?”
Albemarle banged the table. His patience was at an end, since he came now to believe—as Trenchard had earlier suggested—that he had been played upon by Ruth.
“Too many explanations have I heard already, sir,” he answered. He turned to one of his secretaries. In his sudden access of choler he forgot his colleagues altogether. “The prisoners are committed for trial,” said he harshly, and Trenchard breathed freely at last. But the next instant he caught his breath again, for a ringing voice was heard without demanding to see His Grace of Albemarle at once, and the voice was the voice of Anthony Wilding.
CHAPTER XI
THE MARPLOT
Mr. Wilding’s appearance produced as many different emotions as there were individuals present. He made the company a sweeping bow on his admission by Albemarle’s orders, a bow which was returned by a stare from one and all. Diana eyed him in amazement, Ruth in hope; Richard averted his glance from that of his brother-in-law, whilst Sir Rowland met it with a scowl of enmity—they had not come face to face since the occasion of that encounter in which Sir Rowland’s self-love had been so rudely handled. Albemarle’s face expressed a sort of satisfaction, which was reflected on the countenances of Phelips and Luttrell; whilst Trenchard never thought of attempting to dissemble his profound dismay. And this dismay was shared, though not in so deep a measure, by Wilding himself. Trenchard’s presence gave him pause; for he had been far, indeed, from dreaming that his friend had a hand in this affair. At sight of him all was made clear to Mr. Wilding. At once he saw the role which Trenchard had assumed on this occasion, saw to the bottom of the motives that had inspired him to take the bull by the horns and level against Richard and Blake this accusation before they had leisure to level it against himself.
His quick wits having fathomed Trenchard’s motive, Mr. Wilding was deeply touched by this proof of friendship, and for a second, as deeply nonplussed, at loss now how to discharge the task on which he came.
“You are very choicely come, Mr. Wilding,” said Albemarle. “You will be able to resolve me certain doubts which have been set on foot by these traitors.”
“That,” said Mr. Wilding, “is the purpose for which I am here. News reached me of the arrest that had been made. May I beg that Your Grace will place me in possession of the facts that have so far transpired.”
It was one of his secretaries who, at Albemarle’s bidding, gave Wilding the information that he craved. He listened gravely; then, before Albemarle had time to question him on the score of the name that might have been upon the enfolding wrapper of the letter, he begged that he might confer apart a moment with Mr. Trenchard.
“But Mr. Wilding,” said Colonel Luttrell, surprised not to hear the immediate denial of the imputation they had expected, “we should first like to hear…”
“By your leave, sirs,” Wilding interrupted, “I should prefer that you ask me nothing until I have consulted with Mr. Trenchard.” He saw Luttrell’s frown, observed Sir Edward shift his wig to scratch his head in sheer perplexity, and caught the fore-shadowing of denial on the Duke’s face. So, without giving any of them time to say him nay, he added quickly and very seriously, “I am begging this in the interests of justice. Your Grace has told me that some lingering doubt still haunts your mind upon the subject of this letter—the other charges can matter little, apart from that treasonable document. It lies within my power to resolve such doubts most clearly and finally. But I warn you, sirs, that not one word will I utter in this connection until I have had speech with Mr. Trenchard.”
There was about his mien and voice a firmness that forewarned Albemarle that to insist would be worse than idle. A slight pause followed his words, and Luttrell leaned across to whisper in His Grace’s ear; from the Duke’s other side Sir Edward bent his head forward till it almost touched those of his companions. Blake watched, and was most foolishly impatient.
“Your Grace will never allow this!” he cried.
“Eh?” said Albemarle, scowling at him.
“If you allow those two villains to consort together we are all undone,” the baronet protested, and ruined what chance there was of Albemarle’s not consenting.
It was the one thing needed to determine Albemarle. Like the stubborn man he was, there was naught he detested so much as to have his course dictated to him. More than that, in Sir Rowland’s anxiety that Wilding and Trenchard should not be allowed to confer apart, he smoked a fear on Sir Rowland’s part, based upon the baronet’s consciousness of his own guilt. He turned from him with a sneering smile, and without so much as consulting his associates he glanced at Wilding and waved his hand towards the door.
“Pray do as you suggest, Mr. Wilding,” said he. “But I depend upon you not to tax our patience.”
“I shall not keep Mr. Trenchard a moment longer than is necessary,” said Wilding, giving no hint of the second meaning in his words.
He stepped to the door, opened it himself, and signed to Trenchard to pass out. The old player obeyed him readily, if in silence. An usher closed the door after them, and in silence they walked together to the end of the passage.
“Where is your horse, Nick?” quoth Wilding abruptly.
“What a plague do you mean, where is my horse?” flashed Trenchard. “What midsummer frenzy is this? Damn you for a marplot, Anthony! What a pox are you thinking of to thrust yourself in here at such a time?”
“I had no knowledge you were in the affair,” said Wilding. “You should have told me.” His manner was brisk to the point of dryness. “However, there is still time to get you out of it. Where is your horse?”
“Damn my horse!” answered Tren chard in a passion. “You have spoiled everything!”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Wilding tartly, “it seems you had done that very thoroughly before I arrived. Whilst I am touched by the regard for me which has misled you into turning the tables on Blake and Westmacott, yet I do blame you for this betrayal of the Cause.”
“There was no help for it.”
“Why, no; and that is why you should have left matters where they stood.”