This was no ruse, he saw; no cunning trick to find out which way the Markhams had gone, but a true honest feeling for one who had been a friend, but was now transformed by political troubles into an enemy.
“Shake hands,” he said warmly. “I like you, boy. I’ll tell you all I know.”
Fred eagerly took the prisoner’s hand, as the others looked on curiously, their assumption of carelessness gone, and a dull look of despair making its appearance in their eyes and at the angles of their mouths. And as Fred took that hand, it was cold and damp, and the grip was feeble, as its owner said slowly—
“Sir Godfrey Markham and I divided our little force, after drawing lots for choice; I won the choice, and selected the task of making the sally. It would have been too irksome to me to stay behind a barrier and wait to be attacked. I suppose you know—your people were too strong for us, and we were beaten back, followed by your men, till we were all together struggling in the dining-room, from there into the hall, and then on the great staircase. I saw Sir Godfrey and young Scarlett several times during the struggle; then we were all pell-mell, here, there, and everywhere, and I recollect no more.”
“But where did you see them last?”
“I cannot say—in the drawing-room, I think.”
“Yes. What were they doing?”
“What do you think they were likely to be doing, boy? Fighting bravely for their king.”
There was a pause.
“You do not think that—”