Jerome caught a questioning look on Sir Perseus’s face and delicately changed the subject.
“I hope Wedderburn will not keep me waiting,” he said in a low voice. “He was to cross from France and arrive at Romney on the twentieth—meet me in London at ‘The Sleeping Queen’ on Christmas Eve—where we shall stay—I told you—’tis ostensibly an inn, but they have a secret press there.”
“Ah—with Breadalbane in the next room—hush!” said Perseus anxiously.
“Breadalbane himself will be one of us before we have finished,” smiled Jerome. “And besides I have faith in the walls—as I was saying, I can hardly proceed without these instructions from France, and I hope the storms will not delay Wedderburn.”
As he spoke they heard the wind whistle and struggle at the ill-fitting windows and the snow falling down the chimney hiss into the fire.
“Dangerous weather for the packet to cross,” whispered Delia.
“It has done it in worse,” said Jerome. “And there is less fear of detection—government spies are not likely to be on Romney Marsh this time of the year.”
Sir Perseus laughed.
“What fools the Dutchman is served with!” he said. “Think of the times that packet has run to and fro—think of the messages sent—the cargoes of Jacobites shipped—and no one has ever suspected—”
“Our agent, Hunt the smuggler, is trustworthy—and well-paid,” answered Jerome. “And his hut is desolate enough.”