Lord Farquhart’s habitual pose of indifference, of insolent indifference to the world and its opinions, stood him in good stead on that October morning. He had passed through moments of blackest agony, of wild rebellion against the doom in store for him. He had gibed and mocked and railed at fate, at the laws of his country that could condemn an absolutely innocent man to so grewsome a death. He had struggled and fought with his jailers; he had appealed in vain to man and God, but now he sat quite calm and still, determined only that the world that had so incomprehensibly turned from him should not gloat over his despair. Only once had his lips twitched and his eyelids contracted, and that was when he recognized in a figure hooded, cloaked and masked in black, the Lady Barbara Gordon. He had turned his eyes from her instantly, but not quickly enough to miss, the sight of the pathetic white hands she’d stretched toward him. Was she asking for pardon, he wondered. No word from Barbara had reached him in his confinement.
A moment later a faint smile flickered across Lord Farquhart’s face. He had caught sight of Harry Ashley occupying a prominent place near the judge’s stand, and his conviction that Ashley was responsible for his imprisonment and for the sentence that was so soon to be pronounced strengthened his determination to hide his anguish from the world. For the rest, his eyes traveled impersonally over the crowded room. He would greet no one of the intimate friends who crowded as close as they dared to the place where he sat.
Lord Grimsby had not yet entered the room, but from behind the curtains that covered the door of Lord Grimsby’s private apartment rolled Lord Grimsby’s sonorous voice. It reached the first circle of inquisitive ears, and the meaning of his words slipped through the courtroom.
“Ay, but I tell you it was the same. I’ve had dealings with the fellow before. I’ve seen him at close quarters before. I know his voice and his touch and his manner. He’s like enough to Lord Farquhart in size and build, but he’s not like him altogether.”
“And you say he stopped you, my lord?”
“Stopped me not two hours’ ride from Padusey!” roared Lord Grimsby. “On the darkest bit of the road, the fellow sprang from nowhere and brandished his sword in front of my horse. And then he took my purse and my seal and my rings. You’ve questioned all the guards most carefully? They’re sure that the prisoner did not leave his quarters last night? That no one entered his room or left it?”
“Why, yes.” The answer was low and deferential. “He had visitors asking for him in plenty, some with permits and some without, but no one saw him save the guard.”
“And the guard is sure he did not leave his room?” Lord Grimsby’s roar was heard again.
“They’re sure, my lord. And, in very truth, would the prisoner have returned had he once escaped? Lord Farquhart’s presence here argues Lord Farquhart’s innocence of this latest outrage.”
“One can argue little of the devil’s doings,” raged Lord Grimsby.