Gradually, while I spoke, I could see the Dawn of Comprehension illumining Mr. Betterton's face. He still was silent, and let me speak on to the end. He was once more gazing into the fire; his arms were resting on his knees, but his hands were beating one against the other, fist to palm, with a violent, intermittent Gesture, which proclaimed his growing Impatience.
Then suddenly he raised his head, looked me once more straight in the eyes, and said slowly, reiterating some of my words:
"The Conspirators met in the house of Mr. Theophilus Baggs—then—he——"
I nodded.
"My Lord Stour," I said, deliberately measuring my words, "is up to his neck in the damnable Conspiracy."
Still his searching gaze was fixed upon me; and now he put out his hand and clutched my forearm. But he did not speak.
"I was burning with rage," I said, "at the insult put upon you by my Lord Stour ... I longed to be revenged..."
His clutch upon my arm tightened till it felt like a Vice of Steel, and his Voice came to my ear, hoarse and almost unrecognizable.
"Honeywood," he murmured, "what do You mean? What have You done?"
I tried to return his gaze, but it seemed to sear my very Soul. Terror held me now. I scarce could speak. My voice came out in a husky whisper.