A spasm of fury crossed the face of Blake. “They may have me, and welcome, when I've told my tale,” said he. “Let me but tell of Anthony Wilding's lurking here, and not only Anthony Wilding, but all the rest of you are doomed for harbouring him. You know the law, I think,” he mocked them, for Lady Horton, Diana, and Richard, who had come up, stood now a pace or so away in deepest wonder. “You shall know it better before the night is out, and better still before next Sunday's come.”
“Tush!” said Trenchard, and quoted, “'There's none but Anthony may conquer Anthony.'”
“'Tis clear,” said Wilding, “you take me for a rebel. An odd mistake! For it chances, Sir Rowland, that you behold in me an accredited servant of the Secretary of State.”
Blake stared, then fell a prey to ironic laughter. He would have spoken, but Mr. Wilding plucked a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Trenchard.
“Show it him,” said he, and Blake's face grew white again as he read the lines above Sunderland's signature and observed the seals of office. He looked from the paper to the hated smiling face of Mr. Wilding.
“You were a spy?” he said, his tone making a question of the odious statement. “A dirty spy?”
“Your incredulity is flattering, at least,” said Wilding pleasantly as he repocketed the parchment, “and it leads you in the right direction. I neither was nor am a spy.”
“That paper proves it!” cried Blake contemptuously. Having been a spy himself, he was a good judge of the vileness of the office.
“See to my wife, Nick,” said Wilding sharply, and made as if to transfer her to the care of his friend.
“Nay,” said Trenchard, “'tis your own duty that. Let me discharge the other for you.” And he stepped up to Blake and tapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Sir Rowland,” said he, “you're a knave.” Sir Rowland stared at him. “You're a foul thing—a muckworm—Sir Rowland,” added Trenchard amiably, “and you've been discourteous to a lady, for which may Heaven forgive you—I can't.”