Musgrave. A stale trick. ’Tis done with lemon juice or milk, when folks would keep what they write from those who are in their secret. Politicians correspond so, Anne, and rebels.
Anne. But William Hyde is neither, father.
Musgrave. Of course not. Now then!
Anne. (Aside.) Thank Heaven! ’tis all about his calling!
Musgrave. Read! (Aside.) I have learned the key to their cypher, which I have copied from the priest’s letter.
Anne. (Reads.) “Dear Will, we have thine advices, and shall be at Lancaster Fair. All the smart fellows—”
Musgrave. (To himself.) Ah! Bardsea Hole—all the Jacobite gentlemen—good.
Anne. (Reads.) “By the time the grilse come ashore—”
Musgrave. (To himself.) Grilse? ammunition. Go on.
Anne. (Reads.) “Which shall be as you fix, on Tuesday the 16th, at ten of the clock, P.M. There is a bill against you and the old clothier, payable at Ulverstone today, drawn by the butcher. Look out and see that he does not nab either of you—”