"Well! I could not say for certain, your Honour," murmured Master Mittachip, humbly.
There was silence for a few moments. Sir Humphrey Challoner had produced a silver tooth-pick, and was using it as an adjunct to deep meditation. Master Mittachip was contemplating the floor with rapt attention.
"Harkee, Master Mittachip," said Sir Humphrey at last. "Lady Patience is taking those letters to London."
"That was the impression created in my mind, your Honour."
"And why does she take those letters to London?" said Sir Humphrey, bringing his heavy fist crashing down upon the table, and causing glasses and dishes to rattle, whilst Master Mittachip almost lost his balance. "Why does she take them to London, I say? Because they are the proofs of her brother's innocence. It is easy to guess their contents. Requests, admonitions, upbraidings on the part of the disappointed rebels, obvious proofs that Philip had held aloof."
He pushed his chair noisily away from the table, and began pacing the narrow room with great, impatient strides.
But while he spoke Master Mittachip began to lose his placid air of apologetic deference, and a look of alarm suddenly lighted his meek, colourless eyes.
"Good lack," he murmured, "then my Lord Stretton is no rebel?"
"Rebel?—not he!" asserted Sir Humphrey. "His sympathies were thought to be with the Stuarts, but he went south during the rebellion—'twas I who advised him—that he might avoid being drawn within its net."
But at this Master Mittachip's terror became more tangible.