“Where is he?” she whispered.
She mentioned no name, but the young man understood.
“His servant removed him two hours ago, Lady Clancarty,” he replied quietly, “whither, I know not. The man, a wild Irish clown, would not trust me, though, ’pon my honor, I meant to serve—Mr. Trevor,” his voice faltered so at the name that she was again assured that he had divined their secret and a weight slipped from her heart.
“Was he dying?” she asked very low, but the tremor in her voice thrilled her listener.
“I do not know,” he stammered, “I pray not, my lady, for he is a brave man.”
She laid her hand on his arm.
“Thank you,” she said simply, “he is my husband.”
Young Mackie bent his head and kissed her fingers reverently.
“He also trusted me, madam,” he said, and she did not see the pain in the boy’s eyes; “I shall endeavor to deserve it.”
But Betty was not thinking of him.