Richard begged to be alone with his sister, and alone they passed together into the library. His manner was restless; he trembled with excitement, and his eyes glittered almost feverishly.
“You may have thought, Ruth, that I was resigned to your marriage with this fellow Wilding,” he began; “or that for other reasons I thought it wiser not to interfere. If you thought that you wronged me. I—Blake and I—have been at work for you during these last days, and I rejoice to say our labours have not been idle.” His manner grew assertive, boastful, as he proceeded.
“You know, of course,” said she, “that I am married.”
He made a gesture of disdain. “No matter,” said he exultantly.
“It matters something, I think,” she answered. “O Richard, Richard, why did you not come to me sooner if you possessed the means of sparing me this thing?”
He shrugged impatiently; her remonstrance seemed to throw him out of temper. “Oons!” he cried; “I came as soon as was ever possible, and, depend upon it, I am not come too late. Indeed, I think I am come in the very nick of time.” He drew a sheet of paper from an inside pocket of his coat and slapped it down upon the table. “There is the wherewithal to hang your fine husband,” he announced in triumph.
She recoiled. “To hang him?” she echoed. With all her aversion to Mr. Wilding it was plain she did not wish him hanged.
“Aye, to hang him,” Richard repeated, and drew himself to the full height of his short stature in pride at the thing he had achieved. “Read it.”
She took the paper almost mechanically, and for some moments she studied the crabbed signature before realizing whose it was. Then she started.
“From the Duke of Monmouth!” she exclaimed.