"I have heard naught. I have not long returned, and though methought I heard a sound of some commotion in the town, I took but little heed. My thoughts were far away. My friend is dead. But, say, what news is that which made you fail your father?"
"Duke Monmouth landed here, at Lyme, to-night!"
With one deep, sobbing groan, my father staggered back into a chair, and there sat, limp and helpless, like a man bereft of reason.
"Monmouth--landed--here--at--Lyme!" he gasped at length. "Then are we utterly undone, and both may look upon the gallows as our own. For, verily, the words I spake this morning are now proven. He who hath thus put us into jeopardy is in truth a creature of that plotter, Robert Ferguson, and----"
"Nay, sir," I broke in desperately, like one who grasps at silken threads to save himself; "it surely is not proven yet--perchance some other----"
In speaking I had moved a step towards my father, and now, as if to mock me and to prove his words, a something grated underneath my foot. Stooping, I picked it up; and holding it upon my outstretched palm, stared at it fixedly.
"'Tis proven now," I murmured.
"What's that?" rejoined my father, starting forward in his chair.
"The sign of Tubal Ammon," I replied, still gazing hard at what lay in my hand. "'Tis one of those small carven balls he did his trick with by the roadside. He has been here beyond a doubt."
"I knew it, and no proof was needed," groaned my father, sinking back again. "And not only hath he robbed me, but he most likely heard and saw all that passed between us here this very morning. Oh, Michael, Michael! to think that you, my son, should thus have failed me!"