She opened her eyes with a start. Yonder men had been moving in the dining-room when she left the kitchen. As she rallied herself, voices sounded in the still night across the fields. There came the distant, quick bark of a dog. The men were returning from the blacksmith's. She stood between two dangers of detection.
With every nerve tense, trembling from head to foot, Marion worked out the problem. If she destroyed the paper and the courier did not find out the substitution, the hand of the law might be stayed. She would gain time. On the other hand, the messenger evidently knew something of the nature of his mission. He would supply certain facts; and Jeffreys' wrath at being duped would immediately result in a swift condemnation.
The girl started and clutched the door as the quick bark sounded again, this time much nearer.
If she let the letter go there was a faint hope of pardon, in any case she would gain a few days—four perhaps—while the man was going to London and back. It was better so. The letter should go.
Just as the men opened the outer gate of the farm, Marion ran back across the kitchen and stood in the passage. The innkeeper, in the middle of the dining-room, his back to the girl, was yawning loudly. The courier was emptying his last glass. Like a ghost Marion stole past the door and up the stairs.
CHAPTER XVI
EXETER
Simone was waiting on the landing, and as her mistress crept into the room she noiselessly barred the door. Marion sank on the bed, breathing unevenly, her face showing the strain she had undergone. Simone held a glass of water to her lips. She drank eagerly, then buried her face in the coverlet.
Along the passage without went the heavy steps of the courier. Simone was seized with a sudden horror as she realised how near success had run to failure. Success? She looked at the bowed head. Gently she took up the trembling hands.
''Tis he,' came the broken whisper. 'He is in Exeter gaol—condemned. 'Twas to Jeffreys, yonder letter, saying that the prisoner, Roger Trevannion—' Marion's whisper became almost inaudible—'had been found guilty of lending aid and sustenance to the King's enemies and should rightly be hanged. But I can't remember the exact words—the Governor said that seeing the prisoner was a man of note ... he wondered if—if—' Marion's words stumbled, and Simone bent low. 'If,' finished the girl with a sudden burst of bitter, contemptuous anger, 'my lord Jeffreys' well-known clemency would not dictate another—another sentence. I can't remember the rest. Already I would that I could forget what I have remembered.'