“Shenke,” said he, “who was riding from Lyme with letters for you from the Duke, was robbed of his dispatches late last night a mile or so this side Taunton.”
“Highwaymen?” inquired Mr. Wilding, his tone calm, though his glance had hardened.
“Highwaymen? No! Government agents belike. There were two of them, he says—for I have the tale from himself—and they met him at the Hare and Hounds at Taunton, where he stayed to sup last night. One of them gave him the password, and he conceived him to be a friend. But afterwards, growing suspicious, he refused to tell them too much. They followed him, it appears, and on the road they overtook and fell upon him; they knocked him from his horse, possessed themselves of the contents of his wallet, and left him for dead—with his head broken.”
Mr. Wilding drew a sharp breath. His wits worked quickly. He was, he realized, in deadly peril. One thought he gave to Ruth. If the worst came to pass here was one who would rejoice in her freedom. The reflection cut through him like a sword. He would be loath to die until he had taught her to regret him. Then his mind returned to what Trenchard had told him.
“You said a Government agent,” he mused slowly. “How would a Government agent know the password?”
Trenchard's mouth fell open. “I had not thought...” he began. Then ended with an oath. “'Tis a traitor from inside.”
Wilding nodded. “It must be one of those who met at White Lackington three nights ago,” he answered.
Idlers—the witnesses of the wedding—were watching them with interest from the path, and others from over the low wall of the churchyard, as well they might, for Mr. Wilding's behaviour was, for a bridegroom, extraordinary. Trenchard did not relish the audience.
“We had best away,” said he. “Indeed,” he added, “we had best out of England altogether before the hue and cry is raised. The bubble's pricked.”
Wilding's hand fell on his arm, and its grasp was steady. Wilding's eyes met his, and their gaze was calm.