“You mistake, fellow,” said Markham cruelly. “I am a friend of the other Lord Barham.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking of. The man I mean is a little man, with bright eyes, and a soft-spoken manner. I saw him riding in a fine coach the other day, and I was told it was Lord Barham.”
In a few words Mr Markham let him know the true state of affairs. He watched closely the effect, and saw again the furtive look around for a means of escape.
“So now, fellow, you perceive into what trap you have fallen. Faith you’re a bad plotter! I make no doubt your Barham would pay well for the information you hold, because he dare not give you up. But make you no doubt that you’ll get little enough from me. I’ve naught to fear from handing you over to the law. You deserve to hang, but I’m kind. If your information’s worth something I’ll give you twenty guineas to help you out of the country. If you’re stubborn — why, we’ll see what the law-officers have to say to you.”
The stranger attempted to bluster and disclaim, but it was plain he had some fears. Mr Markham bore with this awhile, but arose at last with a significant word of calling to his servant. Bluster turned to a whine; there was produced at last a folded letter from an inner pocket upon which Mr Markham pounced with some eagerness.
He read some half a dozen finely inscribed lines addressed to no less a person than my Lord George Murray, concerning certain hopes of drawing in two gentlemen to the Rebellion whose names were only indicated by an initial; and came at last to the signature. The name of Colney conveyed nothing to Mr Markham, but the stranger said sulkily: — “That’s the name of the man I saw out driving. He who calls himself my Lord Barham.”
“How came you by this letter?”
The stranger said evasively that it had fallen into his hands. He saw no reason to tell Mr Markham that he had stolen it along with some others of little or no importance, in the vague belief that they might be of use to him. Fortunately, Mr Markham’s interest in the manner of the letter’s acquisition was but fleeting, and he inquired no further, but sat frowning down at that elegant signature.
“Can you prove this Colney to be indeed the man you say he is?”
The stranger answered in some alarm that of a certainty he could prove nothing, since he could not, for obvious reasons, come into the open. Mr Markham’s dissatisfaction grew. “I don’t see what use this is. I believe I’d better give you up.”