Her answer was what Claudia Norreys’s had been in that very room.
“You judge rightly, sir. If I thought I could betray a friend or a cause I should hang myself forthwith to avert the calamity.”
Alastair bowed. “Mr. Johnson has told you of this girl, my lady Norreys. She is own sister to you, tender and brave and infinitely faithful. Her husband is otherwise. Her husband is a black traitor, but she does not know it.”
Mr. Johnson cried out. “I had thought better of him, sir. Have you got new evidence?”
“I have full evidence. News of desperate import is sent to him here by another in the South, that other being one of the foremost agents of our Cause. That news should go forthwith to the Prince’s camp. It goes forthwith to the enemy’s.”
“For what reward?” the Duchess asked.
“For that reward which is usual to traitors in times of civil strife. They induce honest but weak-kneed souls to take a bold step, and then betray them to the Government, receiving a share of the fines and penalties that ensue. Great fortunes have been built that way.”
“But if the rebellion wins?”
“Then they are lost, unless indeed they are skilful enough to make provision with both sides and to bury whichever of the two villainies is unprofitable.”
“He is a young man,” she said. “He shows a shocking precocity in guile. And the poor child his wife dreams nothing of this?”
“Ah, madam,” cried Johnson. “She is the very soul and flower of loyalty. If she suspected but a tithe of it, her heart would break.”
“His precocity is remarkable,” said Alastair, “but he is not the principal in the business. The principal is that other I have mentioned who is in the very centre of the Prince’s counsels.”
She put her hands to her ears. “Do not tell me,” she cried. “I will be burdened with no secrets that do not concern me. I take it that this other has not a wife whom you would have me befriend.”
“Nevertheless I fear that I must outrage your ears, madam. This other is known to you—closely allied with you.”
Her eyes were suddenly bright with anxiety.
“His name is Mr. Nicholas Kyd.”
Her face showed relief; also incredulity.
“You are certain? You have proof?”
“I have long been certain. Before night I will have full proof.”
She fell into a muse. “Kyd—the bluff honest bon enfant! The man of the sad old songs and ready pathos, who almost makes a Jacobite of me—Kyd to play the rogue! Faith, His Grace had better look into his accounts. What do you want of me, Captain Maclean?”
“Two things, madam. My purpose is to do justice on rogues, but justice is a cruel thing, and I would spare the lady. I want you to carry her southward with you, and leave her at Chastlecote or Weston, which you please, or carry her to Amesbury. She shall never know her husband’s infamy—only that he has gone to the Prince, and when he does not return will think him honourably dead.”
The Duchess nodded. “And the other?”
“I beg your presence when Mr. Kyd is confounded. He is on his way to Brightwell and this night will sleep there. His errand in the West is now done, and tomorrow, as I read it, he descends into Nottinghamshire to the Government headquarters to receive his reward. Therefore he will have papers with him, and in those papers I look for my proof. If they fail, I have other sources.”
“And if he is found guilty, what punishment?”
Alastair shrugged his shoulders. “That is not for me. Both he and Norreys go bound to the Prince.”
She brooded with her chin on her hand. Then she stood up, laughing.
“I consent. ’Twill be better than a play. But how will you set the stage?”
“I go to Brightwell presently, and shall force admission. My lady Norreys will keep her chamber, while in another part of the house we deal with grimmer business. I nominate you of our court of justice. See, we will fix an hour. Order your coach for six, and you will be at Brightwell by seven. By that time the house will be ours, and we shall be waiting to receive you. You will bring Mr. Johnson with you, and after that you can comfort the lady.”
She nodded. “I will come masked,” said she, “and I do swear that I will not fail you or betray you—by the graves of Durrisdeer I swear it, the ancient Douglas oath. Have you men enough? I can lend you two stout fellows.”
“Your Grace has forgotten that you are a Whig,” said Alastair, laughing.
“I have forgotten all save that I am trysted to a merry evening,” she cried.
When Alastair returned to his attic he found the Spainneach.
“Your Kyd is nearing port,” he said. “I have word that he slept at Blakeley and dined early at Little Laning. In two hours or less he will be at Brightwell.”
“And the Spoonbills?”
“Await us there. Haste you, Sir Sandy, if you would arrive before your guest.”
XV
Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird
The night was mild and dark, and the high road which the two men followed was defined only by the faint glimmer of the rain-pools that lay in every rut. The smell of wet earth was in their nostrils, and the noise of brimming streams in their ears, and to Alastair, with a sword at his side again, the world was transformed. All might yet be saved for the Cause, and in twelve hours he should see the Prince; the thought comforted him, but it was not the main tenant of his mind. For a woman’s face had lodged there like an obsession in sleep; he saw Claudia’s eyes change from laughter to tragedy and back again to
