Wilding started. Underlying his disbelief in the talk of the countryside, and even in the military measures which by the King's orders were being taken in the West, was an uneasy dread lest they should prove to be well founded, lest Argyle's operations in Scotland should be but the forerunner of a rash and premature invasion by Monmouth. He knew the Duke was surrounded by such reckless, foolhardy counsellors as Grey and Ferguson—and yet he could not think the Duke would ruin all by coming before he had definite word that his friends were ready. He looked at Trenchard now with anxious eyes.
“Have you seen the letter, Nick?” he asked, and almost dreaded the reply.
“Albemarle showed it me an hour ago,” said Trenchard.
“And it contains?”
“The news we fear. It is in the Duke's own hand, and intimates that he will follow it in a few days—in a few days, man in person.”
Mr. Wilding clenched teeth and hands. “God help us all, then!” he muttered grimly.
“Meanwhile,” quoth Trenchard, bringing him back to the point, “there is this precious business here. I had as choice a plan as could have been devised, and it must have succeeded, had you not come blundering into it to mar it all at the last moment. That fat fool Albemarle had swallowed my impeachment like a draught of muscadine. Do you hear me?” he ended sharply, for Mr. Wilding stood bemused, his thoughts plainly wandering.
He let his hand fall upon Trenchard's shoulder. “No,” said he, “I wasn't listening. No matter; for even had I known the full extent of your scheme I still must have interfered.”
“For the sake of Mistress Westmacott's blue eyes, no doubt,” sneered Trenchard. “Pah! Wherever there's a woman there's the loss of a man.”
“For the sake of Mistress Wilding's blue eyes,” his friend corrected him. “I'll allow no brother of hers to hang in my place.”