“It’s little help you’ll have from me in the future!” Mr. Markham cried, and left his friend fuming.
He was let out of the house by a solemn lackey, who had spent the morning discussing his master’s freak below-stairs. He walked down the steps, and became aware of a shabby gentleman, hesitating by the railings. He looked with casual interest, wondering what this individual wanted.
The shabby gentleman accosted him. “Your pardon, sir, but does my Lord Barham live here?”
Mr. Markham gave a short laugh. “There’s certainly a man within calls himself Lord Barham,” he said.
The shabby gentleman looked a little puzzled. “It’s—it’s a small man, with a hook nose,” he ventured. “That’s the man I want to see, sir.”
Mr. Markham paused, and his eyes took in the stranger more thoroughly. There was an air of mystery about the man, and some slight savour of nervousness. If this was one of my lord’s late associates it was quite possible that something might be gathered from him of no little importance. “I’m a friend of Lord Barham,” said Markham, in a tone meant to inspire confidence. “Do me the favour of stepping up to my rooms with me.”
The stranger seemed to shrink into himself; hurriedly he declined the honour: he desired to see my lord, and none other.
Mr. Markham’s suspicions were thoroughly aroused. He took the stranger by the elbow, and abandoning the conciliatory tone, said unpleasantly:—“Ay, you’re in a mighty hurry to be off, aren’t you? Now what should the likes of you have to say to Lord Barharn that no one else may hear?”
The stranger tried to break away. “Nothing, sir, I assure you! A matter for my lord’s private ear! I beg you won’t detain me.”
“Ay, but I’ve a mind to know something more of you, my friend,” said Mr. Markham, retaining his hold. “You look to me as though you have information to sell. I know something of this Barham, you see.”
The stranger disclaimed quickly, shooting a swift, scared glance up and down the road. Markham’s suspicions grew, and he drew a bow at a venture. “I believe you’re some damned Jacobite, skulking in hiding,” he said.
There was the faintest start, and a fresh movement to be free. Markham’s grip tightened on the arm he held, and he began to walk down the square, taking the stranger with him. The stranger protested in a high voice of alarm; his vehement oaths that he was no Jacobite left Mr. Markham unmoved. Markham said:—“If you’ve information for sale about Lord Barham you can go free for aught I care. If not—why, we’ll see what the law will get out of you!”
The protestations died away; the stranger went sullenly beside Mr. Markham until the house where Markham lodged was reached. He was ushered into his host’s rooms, and told to sit down. On either side of the table they sat, the stranger holding his battered hat between his hands, and stealing furtive glances towards the door.
“Now then, fellow, I’m a friend of Lord Barham’s, and I’ll hear what you have to say.”
“If you’re a friend of his, you’d best let me see him,” the other said sulkily. “His lordship won’t desire to have me given up. I can tell too much.”
“Why, what should Barham care for aught you could say?”
“Ask him!” the man replied. “I’m ready to sell his lordship what I hold, but if you, who say you’re a friend of his, are fool enough to give me up, I’ll disclose all I know, and then where will his fine lordship be?”
“You’ll give up what you hold to me, my man.”
“If you’re a friend of his,” the stranger insisted, “you dare not hand me over to the law. Take me to Lord Barham.”
“You mistake, fellow,” said Markham cruelly. “I am a friend of the other Lord Barham.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking of. The man I mean is a little man, with bright eyes, and a soft-spoken manner. I saw him riding in a fine coach the other day, and I was told it was Lord Barham.”
In a few words Mr. Markham let him know the true state of affairs. He watched closely the effect, and saw again the furtive look around for a means of escape.
“So now, fellow, you perceive into what trap you have fallen. Faith you’re a bad plotter! I make no doubt your Barham would pay well for the information you hold, because he dare not give you up. But make you no doubt that you’ll get little enough from me. I’ve naught to fear from handing you over to the law. You deserve to hang, but I’m kind. If your information’s worth something I’ll give you twenty guineas to help you out of the country. If you’re stubborn—why, we’ll see what the law-officers have to say to you.”
The stranger attempted to bluster and disclaim, but it was plain he had some fears. Mr. Markham bore with this awhile, but arose at last with a significant word of calling to his servant. Bluster turned to a whine; there was produced at last a folded letter from an inner pocket upon which Mr. Markham pounced with some eagerness.
He read some half a dozen finely inscribed lines addressed to no less a person than my Lord George Murray, concerning certain hopes of drawing in two gentlemen to the Rebellion whose names were only indicated by an initial; and came at last to the signature. The name of Colney conveyed nothing to Mr. Markham, but the stranger said sulkily:—“That’s the name of the man I saw out driving. He who calls himself my Lord Barham.”
“How came you by this letter?”
The stranger said evasively that it had fallen into his hands. He saw no reason to tell Mr. Markham that he had stolen it along with some others of little or no importance, in the vague belief that they might be of use to him. Fortunately, Mr. Markham’s interest in the
