“Ay, but I’ve a mind to know something more of you, my friend,” said Mr Markham, retaining his hold. “You look to me as though you have information to sell. I know something of this Barham, you see.”
The stranger disclaimed quickly, shooting a swift, scared glance up and down the road. Markham’s suspicions grew, and he drew a bow at a venture. “I believe you’re some damned Jacobite, skulking in hiding,” he said.
There was the faintest start, and a fresh movement to be free. Markham’s grip tightened on the arm he held, and he began to walk down the square, taking the stranger with him. The stranger protested in a high voice of alarm; his vehement oaths that he was no Jacobite left Mr Markham unmoved. Markham said: — “If you’ve information for sale about Lord Barham you can go free for aught I care. If not — why, we’ll see what the law will get out of you!”
The protestations died away; the stranger went sullenly beside Mr Markham until the house where Markham lodged was reached. He was ushered into his host’s rooms, and told to sit down. On either side of the table they sat, the stranger holding his battered hat between his hands, and stealing furtive glances towards the door.
“Now then, fellow, I’m a friend of Lord Barham’s, and I’ll hear what you have to say.”
“If you’re a friend of his, you’d best let me see him,” the other said sulkily. “His lordship won’t desire to have me given up. I can tell too much.”
“Why, what should Barham care for aught you could say?”
“Ask him!” the man replied. “I’m ready to sell his lordship what I hold, but if you, who say you’re a friend of his, are fool enough to give me up, I’ll disclose all I know, and then where will his fine lordship be?”
“You’ll give up what you hold to me, my man.”
“If you’re a friend of his,” the stranger insisted, “you dare not hand me over to the law. Take me to Lord Barham.”