Her eyes were suddenly bright with anxiety.
"His name is Mr Nicholas Kyd."
Her face showed relief; also incredulity.
"You are certain? You have proof?"
"I have long been certain. Before night I will have full proof."
She fell into a muse. "Kyd—the bluff honest bon enfant! The man of the sad old songs and ready pathos, who almost makes a Jacobite of me—Kyd to play the rogue! Faith, His Grace had better look into his accounts. What do you want of me, Captain Maclean?"
"Two things, madam. My purpose is to do justice on rogues, but justice is a cruel thing, and I would spare the lady. I want you to carry her southward with you, and leave her at Chastlecote or Weston, which you please, or carry her to Amesbury. She shall never know her husband's infamy—only that he has gone to the Prince, and when he does not return will think him honourably dead."
The Duchess nodded. "And the other?"
"I beg your presence when Mr Kyd is confounded. He is on his way to Brightwell and this night will sleep there. His errand in the West is now done, and to-morrow, as I read it, he descends into Nottinghamshire to the Government headquarters to receive his reward. Therefore he will have papers with him, and in those papers I look for my proof. If they fail, I have other sources."
"And if he is found guilty, what punishment?"