romise."

"A woman's promise!" snorted Trenchard, and proceeded with great
circumstance of expletives to damn "everything that daggled a
petticoat."

"Your fears are idle," Wilding assured him. "What she says, she will
do."

"And her brother?" quoth Trenchard. "Have you bethought you of that
canary-bird? He'll know the letter's whereabouts. He has cause to fear
you more than ever now. Are you sure he'll not be making use of it to
lay you by the heels?"

Mr. Wilding smiled upon the fury provoked by Trenchard's concern and
love for him. "She has promised," he said with an insistent faith that
was fuel to Trenchard's anger, "and I can depend her word."

"So cannot I," snapped his friend.

"The thing that plagues me most," said Wilding, ignoring the remark, "is
that we are kept in ignorance of the letter's contents at a time when we
most long for news. Not a doubt but it would have enabled us to set our
minds at ease on the score of these foolish rumours."

"Aye--or else confirmed them," said pessimistic Trenchard. He wagged his
head. "They say the Duke has put to sea already."

"Folly!" Wilding protested.

"Whitehall thinks otherwise. What of the troops at Taunton?"

"More folly."

"Well-I would you had that letter."

"At least," said Wilding, "I have the superscription, and we know from
Shenke that no name was mentioned in the letter itself."

"There's evidence enough without it," 'Trenchard reminded him, and fell
soon after into abstraction, turning over in his mind a notion with
which he had suddenly been inspired. That notion kept Trenchard secretly
occupied for a couple of days; but in the end he succeeded in perfecting
it.

Now it befell that towards dusk one evening early in the week Richard
Westmacott went abroad alone, as was commonly his habit, his goal being
the Saracen's Head, where he and Sir Rowland spent many a night over
wine and cards--to Sir Rowland's moderate profit, for he had not played
the pigeon in town so long without having acquired sufficient knowledge
to enable him to play the rook in the country. As Westmacott was passing
up the High Street, a black shadow fell athwart the light that streamed
from the door of the Bell Inn, and out through the doorway lurched Mr.
Trenchard a thought unsteadily to hurtle so violently against Richard
that he broke the long stem of the white clay pipe he was carrying. Now
Richard was not to know that Mr. Trenchard--having informed himself of
Mr. W