Once having decided that the letter, purporting to be written by Lady Eversleigh, was a forgery, he could not doubt that it formed part of some plot against the household of Raynham Castle.
To Captain Copplestone, who knew that the life of his friend had been sacrificed to the dark plottings of a traitor, this idea was terrible.
"I knew the wretches I had to deal with; I was forewarned that treachery and cunning would be on the watch to do that child wrong," he said to himself, during those hours of self-reproach; "and yet I allowed myself to be duped by the first trick of those hidden foes. Oh, great heaven! grant that I may reach Raynham before they can have taken any fatal advantage of my absence."
It was daybreak when the captain's post-chaise dashed into the village street of Raynham. He murmured a thanksgiving and a prayer, almost in the same breath, as he saw the castle-turrets dark against the chill gray sky.
The vehicle ascended the hill, and stopped before the arched entrance to the castle. An old woman, who acted as portress, opened the carved iron gates. He glanced at her, but did not stop to question her. One word from her would have put an end to all suspense; but in this last moment the soldier had not courage to utter the question which he so dreaded to have answered—Was Gertrude safe?
In another moment that question was answered for Captain
Copplestone—answered completely, without the utterance of a word.
The principal door of the castle was open, and in the doorway stood two men.
One was Mr. Ashburne, the magistrate; the other was Christopher Dimond, the constable of Raynham.
The sight of these two men told Captain Copplestone that his fears were but too surely realized. Something had happened amiss—something of importance—or Gilbert Ashburne, the magistrate, would not be there.
"The child!" gasped the captain; "is she dead—murdered?"