There was a silence.
The Master of Stair picked up his hat and cloak and turned toward the door. He took a whistle from his breast and blew three times into the night.
Celia Hunt cried as figures formed out of the blackness.
“Arrest this girl for high treason, Captain,” said the Master of Stair in a manner quiet and courteous as a couple of soldiers stepped into the room, “and search the house—see to it she sends no messages—you will find me in Romney to-night—to-morrow in London.”
“I was glad to hear your signal, Sir John,” answered the soldier, “’tis cold on these fens.”
“A vile place,” said the Master of Stair. “I think the Jacobites will use it no more. You have arrested the man, Hunt?”
“Yes, Sir John; we found him on the fens.”
“Good-night, Captain.” He lifted his hat and was gone into the dark.
Celia Hunt unpinned the Duke of Berwick’s brooch and slipped it inside her bosom before they came to tie her hands.
“Maybe,” said the officer, “he or both of you will choose to turn informer.”