paper from an inside pocket of his coat and slapped it down upon the table. "There is the wherewithal to hang your fine husband," he
announced in triumph.
She recoiled. "To hang him?" she echoed. With all her aversion to Mr. Wilding it was plain she did not wish him hanged.
"Aye, to hang him," Richard repeated, and drew himself to the full height of his short stature in pride at the thing he had achieved. "Read it."
She took the paper almost mechanically, and for some moments she studied the crabbed signature before realizing whose it was. Then she started.
"From the Duke of Monmouth!" she exclaimed.
He laughed. "Read it," he bade her again, though there was no need for the injunction, for already she was deciphering the crabbed hand and the atrocious spelling — for His Grace of
Monmouth's education had been notoriously neglected. The letter, which was dated from The Hague, was addressed "To my good friend W., at Bridgwater." It began, "Sir," spoke of the imminent arrival
of His Grace in the West, and gave certain instructions for the collection of arms and the work of preparing men for enlistment in his Cause, ending with protestations of His Grace's friendship and
esteem.
Ruth read the epistle twice before its treasonable nature was made clear to her; before she understood the thing that was foreshadowed. Then she raised troubled eyes to her brother's face, and
in answer to the question of her glance he made clear to her the shrewd means by which they had become possessed of this weapon that should destroy their enemy Mr. Wilding.
Blake and he, forewarned — he said not how — of the coming of this messenger, had lain in wait for him at the Hare and Hounds, at Taunton. They had sought at first to become
possessed of the letter without violence. But, having failed in this through having aroused the messenger's suspicions, they had been forced to follow and attack him on a lonely stretch of road,
where they had robbed him of the contents of his wallet. Richard added that the letter was, no doubt, one of several sent over by Monmouth to some friend at Lyme for distribution among his
principal agents in the West. It was regrettable that they should have endeavoured to take gentle measures with the courier, as this had forewarned him, and he had apparently been led to remove the
letter's outer wrapper — which, no doubt, bore Wilding's full name and address — against the chance of such an attack as they had made upon him. Nevertheless, as it was, that letter "to
my good friend W.," backed by Richard's and Blake's evidence of the destination intended for it, would be more than enough to lay Mr. Wilding safely by the heels.
"I would to Heaven," he repeated in conclusion, "I could have come in time to save you from becoming his wife. But at least it is in my power to make you very speedily his widow."
"That," said Ruth, still retaining the letter, "is what you propose to do?"
"What else?"
She shook her head. "It must not be, Richard," she said. "I'll not consent to it."
Taken aback, he stared at her; then laughed unpleasantly. "Odds my life! Are you in love with the man? Have you been fooling us?"
"No," she answered. "But I'll be no party to his murder."
"Murder, quotha! Who talks of murder?"
Her shrewd eyes searched his face. "How came you by your knowledge that this courier rode to Mr. Wilding?" she asked him suddenly, and the swift change that overspread his countenance showed her
that she had touched him in a tender spot, assured her of the thing she had suddenly come to suspect — a suspicion which at the same time started from and explained much that had been
mysterious in Richard's ways of late. "You had knowledge of this conspiracy," she pursued, answering her own question before he had time to speak, "because you were one of the conspirators."
"At least I am so no longer," he blurted out.
"I thank Heaven for that, Richard; for your life is very dear to me. But it would ill become you to
announced in triumph.
She recoiled. "To hang him?" she echoed. With all her aversion to Mr. Wilding it was plain she did not wish him hanged.
"Aye, to hang him," Richard repeated, and drew himself to the full height of his short stature in pride at the thing he had achieved. "Read it."
She took the paper almost mechanically, and for some moments she studied the crabbed signature before realizing whose it was. Then she started.
"From the Duke of Monmouth!" she exclaimed.
He laughed. "Read it," he bade her again, though there was no need for the injunction, for already she was deciphering the crabbed hand and the atrocious spelling — for His Grace of
Monmouth's education had been notoriously neglected. The letter, which was dated from The Hague, was addressed "To my good friend W., at Bridgwater." It began, "Sir," spoke of the imminent arrival
of His Grace in the West, and gave certain instructions for the collection of arms and the work of preparing men for enlistment in his Cause, ending with protestations of His Grace's friendship and
esteem.
Ruth read the epistle twice before its treasonable nature was made clear to her; before she understood the thing that was foreshadowed. Then she raised troubled eyes to her brother's face, and
in answer to the question of her glance he made clear to her the shrewd means by which they had become possessed of this weapon that should destroy their enemy Mr. Wilding.
Blake and he, forewarned — he said not how — of the coming of this messenger, had lain in wait for him at the Hare and Hounds, at Taunton. They had sought at first to become
possessed of the letter without violence. But, having failed in this through having aroused the messenger's suspicions, they had been forced to follow and attack him on a lonely stretch of road,
where they had robbed him of the contents of his wallet. Richard added that the letter was, no doubt, one of several sent over by Monmouth to some friend at Lyme for distribution among his
principal agents in the West. It was regrettable that they should have endeavoured to take gentle measures with the courier, as this had forewarned him, and he had apparently been led to remove the
letter's outer wrapper — which, no doubt, bore Wilding's full name and address — against the chance of such an attack as they had made upon him. Nevertheless, as it was, that letter "to
my good friend W.," backed by Richard's and Blake's evidence of the destination intended for it, would be more than enough to lay Mr. Wilding safely by the heels.
"I would to Heaven," he repeated in conclusion, "I could have come in time to save you from becoming his wife. But at least it is in my power to make you very speedily his widow."
"That," said Ruth, still retaining the letter, "is what you propose to do?"
"What else?"
She shook her head. "It must not be, Richard," she said. "I'll not consent to it."
Taken aback, he stared at her; then laughed unpleasantly. "Odds my life! Are you in love with the man? Have you been fooling us?"
"No," she answered. "But I'll be no party to his murder."
"Murder, quotha! Who talks of murder?"
Her shrewd eyes searched his face. "How came you by your knowledge that this courier rode to Mr. Wilding?" she asked him suddenly, and the swift change that overspread his countenance showed her
that she had touched him in a tender spot, assured her of the thing she had suddenly come to suspect — a suspicion which at the same time started from and explained much that had been
mysterious in Richard's ways of late. "You had knowledge of this conspiracy," she pursued, answering her own question before he had time to speak, "because you were one of the conspirators."
"At least I am so no longer," he blurted out.
"I thank Heaven for that, Richard; for your life is very dear to me. But it would ill become you to
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