“What was the message?” Traherne asked as they drew together near the window—it was farthest from possible listeners.
Antony Crespin smiled. “It said,” he answered, “that the lady had accepted her life—on his conditions.”
“Oh! A trap for us!” was Traherne’s comment.
“Yes,” Crespin agreed. “A put-up job. And a clumsy one.”
“You gave no sign, Antony.” Lucilla laid her hand on her husband’s arm as she spoke, more liking and respect in voice and eyes than she had given him for years, and his fingers closed over hers gratefully. “I think,” she said, “he must have been reassured.”
“Evidently,” Traherne said, “or he wouldn’t have left us here.”
“What to do now?” Crespin asked briskly—in the tone of one who knew there was not much time to lose. He spoke to Traherne, but he kept his hand on his wife’s, holding her hand close on his arm—and she let it stay.
“Can we break open the door?” Traherne answered.
“No good,” Crespin told him. “It would make a noise. We’d be interrupted, and then it would be all up.”
Traherne nodded gloomily. “Well, then,” he suggested desperately, “the next step is to try to bribe Watkins.”