“So precious was the time,” proceeded Nanette, “that my mistress would not even delay to go to the gaol and see you. She sent a letter, however.”
“Where is it?” I asked, eagerly.
“I left it with the keeper for you.”
“And he never gave it to me. But go on. There is much mystery. Go on. Talk faster, Nanette.”
“Patience, m’sieur. Well, Mistress de Guilfort, in great distress of mind for you, started for Boston. She said she would return the next day.”
“Did she?”
“Nay. That afternoon you were tried, and the sentence of death passed. I was in sore heart at home, watching for the return of my mistress. Toward night a messenger on horseback rode to the door and inquired for her. Before I thought I told him she had gone to Boston. As he turned away I caught a glimpse of the messenger’s face. It was Sir George Keith. I knew him at once, though I had not seen him in five years.
“‘So my pretty Lucille has flown from me,’ he said, and I knew for the first time that he had previously found her out in Salem, which accounted for her strange terror at a certain time.”
“Go on!” I almost shouted. “I begin to see the end.”
“That is all,” said Nanette, stopping suddenly.