Feversham was speaking again, asking Blake a fresh question. “And who betray you to t'is rogue?”
“To Westmacott?” cried Blake. “He was in the plot with me. He was left to guard the rear, to see that we were not taken by surprise, and he deserted his post. Had he not done that, there had been no disaster, in spite of Mr. Wilding's intervention.”
Feversham's brow was dark, his eyes glittered as they rested on the traitor.
“T'at true, sare?” he asked him.
“Not quite,” put in Mr. Wilding. “Mr. Westmacott, I think, was constrained away. He did not intend...”
“Tais-toi!” blazed Feversham. “Did I interrogate you? It is for Mistaire Westercott to answer.” He set a hand on the table and leaned forward towards Wilding, his face very malign. “You shall to answer for yourself, Mistaire Wildin'; I promise you you shall to answer for yourself.” He turned again to Richard. “Eh, bien?” he snapped. “Will you speak?”
Richard came forward a step; he was certainly nervous, and certainly pale; but neither as pale nor as nervous as from our knowledge of Richard we might have looked to see him at that moment.
“It is in a measure true,” he said. “But what Mr. Wilding has said is more exact. I was induced away. I did not dream any could know of the plan, or that my absence could cause this catastrophe.”
“So you went, eh, vaurien? You t'ought t'at be to do your duty, eh? And it was you who tole your sistaire?”
“I may have told her, but not before she had the tale already from Blake.”