“Get to horse, you fool, and ride to Walford as you proposed, there to ambush the messenger. The letter will go to Whitehall none the less in spite of what I shall tell Albemarle. If things go well with me, I shall join you at Vallancey's before long.”
“Why, if that is your intention,” said Trenchard, “I had better stay, and we can ride together. It will make it less uncertain for you.”
“But less certain for you.”
“The more reason why I should remain.”
The door of the hall was suddenly flung open at the far end of the corridor, and Albemarle's booming voice, impatiently raised, reached them where they stood.
“In any case,” added Trenchard, “it seems there is no help for it now.”
Mr. Wilding shrugged his shoulders, but otherwise dissembled his vexation. Up the passage floated the constable's voice calling them.
Side by side they moved down, and side by side they stepped once more into the presence of Christopher Monk and his associates.
“Sirs, you have not been in haste,” was the Duke's ill-humoured greeting.
“We have tarried a little that we might make an end the sooner,” answered Trenchard dryly, and this was the first indication he gave Mr. Wilding of how naturally—like the inimitable actor that he was—he had slipped into his new role.