'Scrope!' cried Wogan, cursing his own stupidity. 'Scrope it must have been, and the Crow swore that the man told him about the plot, and often talked it over.'
'That means, of course, that Scrope made him talk. The old curse of the Cause, that lost us Edinburgh Castle in the Fifteen, when the Scots stopped at the tavern to powder their hair. Our curse, Nicholas. Wine!'
'And Woman,' Mr. Wogan thought, but George ran on,
'Scrope it was who wrote the ballad, for no enemy but Scrope knew what the writer knew. Lady Mary is a friend. Lady Oxford is innocent, thank God--I say it with a humble heart--and I am not the cause of the ruin.'
George's eyes shone like those of a man reprieved. Wogan shook his friend's hand; his own eyes were opened.
''Tis you are the devil,' he said. 'Scrope has hit everyone he hates, and blown up the plot.'
'His time will come,' said Kelly; 'but I hear Sam on the stair.'
Mr. Wesley, tapping lightly, entered his room.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'the outer door is open.'
Mr. Wesley's anxiety was plainly to be read in his face.