“I myself will keep Fanshawe away,” announced my lord. “You will stop only to change horses; you arrive at Gretna — ”
“And Letty refuses to marry me. Very pretty.”
“You have it quite wrong,” said my lord. “She goes willingly. You are married; she becomes mistress of her mother’s fortune on that day. You are at once rich, and a happy bridegroom.”
Mr Markham’s eyes glistened. It was an attractive picture, and he could not resist dwelling on it for a space. “You seem to know a devilish lot about the Graysons,” he remarked.
“I do, my friend, as you shall see. I know she becomes mistress of a charming fortune on the day she marries, with or without Sir Humphrey’s consent. You must be master of it. I am determined on it.”
“But how?” demanded Mr Markham.
My lord arose, and went to where a locked desk stood. Mr Markham watched him open it, and saw him take a bundle of papers from a hidden drawer, and select one from the bundle. My lord came back with it in his hand, and spread it for his visitor to read. A smile of simple triumph illumined his countenance.
Mr Markham read with knit brows. It was a letter from Sir Humphrey to a man Markham did not know. It was vague in tenor, but there were references to the “Prince,” and a half promise to render assistance in the “venture to be attempted,” if the Prince would come without foreign aid into England. Mr Markham sniffed. “The old dog!” he said. “That wouldn’t send him to Tyburn. He’s a friend of Bute’s. He never lifted a finger in the Rising, and they’d never touch him.”
“But would the little Letty see that with the same quickness, my friend? Your brain leaps to it, true, but do you rate her intelligence as high as yours? I cannot allow it to be so.”
A dim scheme began to form itself in Mr Markham’s brain. “I’ll take it,” he said suddenly.