“She must have ridden to meet me, and missed us in the dark,” said Peter aloud, whereon the man asked whether he spoke to Master Brome, since, if so, he had a letter for him.
“Yes,” answered Peter, and snatched it from his hand, bidding him close the door and hold up the lantern while he read, for he could see that the writing was that of Margaret.
“A strange story,” he muttered, as he finished it. “Well, I must away,” and he turned to the door again.
As he stretched out his hand to the key, it opened, and through it came Castell, as sound as ever he had been.
“Welcome, Peter!” he cried in a jolly voice. “I knew you were here, for I saw the horses; but why are you not with Margaret?”
“Because Margaret has gone to be with you, who should be hurt almost to death, or so says this letter.”
“To be with me—hurt to the death! Give it me—nay, read it, I cannot see.”
So Peter read.
“I scent a plot,” said Castell in a strained voice as he finished, “and I think that hound of a Spaniard is at the bottom of it, or Betty, or both. Here, you fellow, tell us what you know, and be swift if you would keep a sound skin.”
“That would I, why not?” answered the man, and told all the tale of the coming of the sailor.