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Down the passage they sped at the double, and out into the courtyard. Here Ruth's groom, mounted himself, was walking his mistress's and Diana's horses up and down whilst he waited; yonder one of Sir Edward's stable-boys was holding Mr. Wilding's roan.
Nick linked his arm through his friend's and led him away. They quitted the place in silence, and in silence took their way south towards the High Street, Nick waiting for Mr. Wilding to speak, Mr. Wilding's mind still in turmoil at the things he had endured. At last Nick halted suddenly and looked keenly at his friend in the failing light. "What a plague ails you, Tony?" said he sharply.
He had a strange fancy for ferns and rock plants and things of that description, and as that particular specimen happens to be one that does better in the atmosphere of a stable than elsewhere, he kept it in here." "Who told him that it does better in the atmosphere of a stable?" "Lady Wilding's cousin, Mr. Sharpless. It was he who gave Tolliver the plant." "Oho! Then Mr.
The task, indeed, was one to which he applied himself with a certain zest; whatever might be the outcome of the affair, there was no denying that he was by way of reaping profit from it by the final overthrow of an acknowledged rival. And when he told her how Richard had flung his wine in Wilding's face when Wilding stood to toast her, a faint flush crept to her cheeks.
"That's the way all but one of 'em is going in," was the answer. "There's going to be one vacant place at the dinner." "Whose?" asked another of the trio, of the one who seemed to be the leader. "Ned Wilding's." "Are you sure he will come along alone so we can grab him?" "Alone or not we'll get him.
Wilding's name, indeed, not now hearing it, but hearing instead the name Miss Vila, cordially welcomed the distinguished-looking visitor, and marched before him into the little parlor, where she presented the card, on a salver which she had snatched on the way, to Miss Vila, who was sitting with Mrs. Martindale. The two ladies were playing backgammon.
"In Heaven's name..." he began, when Mr. Wilding, ever calm and smiling, though now a trifle sinister, waved him gently into silence. But that persisting calm of Mr. Wilding's was too much for old Nick Trenchard. He rose abruptly, drawing all eyes upon himself. It was time, he thought, he took a hand in this.
"Let us attend to this, your lordship," said Speke, tapping the map. "Time presses," and he invited Wade to continue the matter that Wilding's advent had interrupted. Still smarting under the cavalier treatment he had received, Mr. Wilding came forth from the Castle to find Trenchard awaiting him among the crowd of officers and men that thronged the yard.
Trenchard's landlord distinguished his premises and the chandler's trade he drove there. Trenchard set a detaining hand on Mr. Wilding's arm. "Nine o'clock is the hour appointed for supper. It is odds the Duke will be a little late, and it is more than odds that when he does arrive, the assassins will wait until the company is safely at table and lulled by good eating and drinking.
Fletcher looked up sharply, his clear intelligent eyes full upon Wilding's calm face, his countenance expressing as little as did Wilding's. Ferguson seemed slightly taken aback. Grey's thick lips were twisted in a sneering smile. "Faith," said the latter with elaborate sarcasm, "in that case it only remains for us to ship again, heave anchor, and back to Holland."
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