ined that Monmouth himself was
coming over from Holland. These tales Wilding and his associates had
ignored. The Duke, they knew, was to spend the summer in retreat in
Sweden, with (it was alleged) the Lady Henrietta Wentworth to bear him
company, and in the mean time his trusted agents were to pave the way
for his coming in the following spring. Of late the lack of direct news
from the Duke had been a source of mystification to his friends in the
West, and now, suddenly, the information went abroad--it was something
more than rumour this time--that a letter of the greatest importance
had been intercepted. From whom that letter proceeded or to whom it was
addressed, could not yet be discovered. But it seemed clear that it
was connected with the Monmouth Cause, and it behoved Mr. Wilding to
discover what he could. With this intent he rode with Trenchard that
Sunday morning to Taunton, hoping that at the Red Lion Inn--that
meeting-place of dissenters--he might cull reliable information.

It was in consequence of this that the meeting with Richard Westmacott
was not to take place until the evening, and therefore Vallancey came
not to Lupton House as early as Richard thought he should expect him.
Blake, however--more no doubt out of a selfish fear of losing a valued
ally in the winning of Ruth's hand than out of any excessive concern for
Richard himself--had risen early and hastened to Lupton House, in the
hope, which he recognized as all but forlorn, of yet being able to avert
the disaster he foresaw for Richard.

Peering over the orchard wall as he rode by, he caught a glimpse,
through an opening between the trees, of Ruth herself and Diana on the
lawn beyond. There was a wicket gate that stood unlatched, and availing
himself of this Sir Rowland tethered his horse in the lane and threading
his way briskly through the orchard came suddenly upon the girls.
Their laughter reached him as he advanced, and told him they could know
nothing yet of Richard's danger.

On his abrupt and unexpected apparition, Diana paled and Ruth flushed
slightly, whereupon Sir Rowland might have bethought him, had he been
book-learned, of the axiom, "Amour qui rougit, fleurette; amour qui
plit, drame du coeur."

He doffed his hat and bowed, his fair ringlets tumbling forward till
they hid his face, which was exceeding grave.

Ruth gave him good morning pleasantly. "You London folk are earlier
risers than we are led to think," she added.

"'T