There was a slight flush on his cheeks, an added lustre in his eye, as he took Wilding's hand and shook it heartily before Wilding had time to kiss His Grace's.
“You are late,” he said, but there was no reproach in his voice. “We had looked to find you here when we came ashore. You had my letter?”
“I had not, Your Grace,” answered Wilding, very grave. “It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” cried the Duke, and behind him Grey pressed forward, whilst even Ferguson paused in his writing to raise his piercing eyes and listen.
“It is no matter,” Wilding reassured him. “Although stolen, it has but gone to Whitehall to-day, when it can add little to the news that is already on its way there.”
The Duke laughed softly, with a flash of white teeth, and looked past Wilding at Trenchard. Some of the light faded out of his eyes. “They told me Mr. Trenchard...” he began, when Wilding, half turning to his friend, explained.
“This is Mr. Nicholas Trenchard—John Trenchard's cousin.
“I bid you welcome, sir,” said the Duke, very agreeably, “and I trust your cousin follows you.”
“Alas,” said Trenchard, “my cousin is in France,” and in a few brief words he related the matter of John Trenchard's home-coming on his acquittal and the trouble there had been connected with it.
The Duke received the news in silence. He had expected good support from old Speke's son-in-law. Indeed, there was a promise that when he came, John Trenchard would bring fifteen hundred men from Taunton. He took a turn in the room deep in thought, and there was a pause until Ferguson, rubbing his great Roman nose, asked suddenly had Mr. Wilding seen the Declaration. Mr. Wilding had not, and thereupon the plotting parson, who was proud of his composition, would have read it to him there and then, but that Grey sourly told him the matter would keep, and that they had other things to discuss with Mr. Wilding.