“I admit,” said he, “that you have me between sword and wall.” He laughed shortly. “Let me know more,” he begged her. “Am I to understand that so long as I leave you in peace—so long as I do not insist upon your becoming my wife in more than name—you will not wield the weapon that you hold?”
“You are to understand so,” she answered.
He took a turn in the room, very thoughtful. Not of himself was he thinking now, but of the Duke of Monmouth. Trenchard had told him some ugly truths that morning of how in his love-making he appeared to have shipwrecked the Cause ere it was well launched. If this letter got to Whitehall there was no gauging—ignorant as he was of what was in it—the ruin that might follow; but they had reason to fear the worst. He saw his duty to the Duke most clearly, and he breathed a prayer of thanks that Richard had chosen to put that letter to such a use as this. He knew himself checkmated; but he was a man who knew how to bear defeat in a becoming manner. He turned suddenly.
“The letter is in your hands?” he inquired.
“It is,” she answered.
“May I see it?” he asked.
She shook her head—not daring to show it or betray its whereabouts lest he should use force to become possessed of it—a thing, indeed, that was very far from his purpose.
He considered a moment, his mind intent now rather upon the Duke's interest than his own.
“You know,” quoth he, “the desperate enterprise to which I stand committed. But it is a bargain between us that you do not betray me nor that enterprise so long as I leave you rid of my presence.”
“That is the bargain I propose,” said she.