the two stood in silence until the sound of a door closing came from the farther end of the house.
'you have the same dread,' said marion heavily. 'i can see it. i had hoped perhaps 'twas my nervous fancy that, like a colt, shies at every stone in the path.'
she sat down on the low window seat.
'he bears a letter,' said simone suddenly.
'and 'tis not in his pocket, or he would have slapped it bravely. 'tis in his saddlebags.'
'in the stable, mademoiselle?'
'in the harness room, i expect, next to the stable. i noted the place when we were waiting.'
marion buried her face in her hands. a silence fell on the little chamber. the sound of laughter and voices rose from the room below.
'mademoiselle,' presently came simone's whisper, 'this is unbearable. perhaps we are both mistaken. our thoughts naturally go the same way. if you saw the letter, you would know. let me find it for you.'
'no,' said marion firmly, lifting her head. 'no hand is laid to such an action but my own. i take myself whatever risk may befall. and if i do it, i must do it at once, before the light fails—and before delay makes a coward of me. i had already thought of it. 'twould appear easy enough; the men abroad, the servant girls in bed. and if i am discovered, i must be looking at jennifer's knees.'
'mademoiselle,' ventured simone, 'you must be ready, you know. the letter will doubtless be sealed. i have heard that a hot knife, run under the seal, will ease it without breaking it. you will find a knife in the kitchen, and the logs are alight. i saw the glow from the passage.'
marion shivered slightly. ''tis a foul thing that i set myself to do, but i must know. i must know. quick, simone! take off my shoes. stockings make no sound.'
a minute later marion crept stealthily downstairs. mine host and the traveller were talking over their wine, their heads dark against the sunset light which fell slanting through the latticed window.
from the crack of the door, as she stole by, marion caught a glimpse of the two figures, the smoke rising from their pipes. how long would they stay thus?
noiselessly she crept along the passage in the direction whence she had seen the servant girl come with dishes for supper. a glow from some interior warmth lay across the passage stones, the same light that simone had noted. with a quick backward glance marion turned in at the open kitchen door.
a fire of logs burned in the huge chimney place, casting gleams on the brass cooking utensils hanging on the chimney breast. on the table stood various dishes and jugs. rapidly marion looked about for a knife. would she, she thought with a sudden tremor, be obliged to open a drawer? neither on the dresser nor on the table was a knife to be seen.
she tiptoed across the room to an open door. beyond lay the inn yard and the stables. the exit was clear. so far so good; but the knife?
another door just on the latch stood in the opposite wall. peeping in, marion saw the place she sought: the 'wash-up.' a pile of knives and forks stood on a side bench, clean from supper, but evidently awaiting scouring. hastily she selected the one with the slenderest blade.
as she turned to go back into the kitchen, her foot caught in the slanting leg of a rough stool just inside the little room. it jerked on the stones. marion stood still, her heart thumping so loudly that she felt that the men whose voices came dimly down the passage must be hearing its beat where they sat. something moved overhead. in an agony of fear marion waited. should she get out of the kitchen at once before those steps came downstairs? better anything than be caught indoors in this fashion. for close on a minute she stood, the throbbing pulse in her brow measuring out the seconds.
the sounds did not recur. she crept towards the fireplace. with her ears straining for any sound she plunged the knife into the glowing embers, and took her handkerchief to protect her hand from any heat which the handle might catch. not until the blade was red did she allow herself to withdraw the knife.
hastily she darted out at the open kitchen door. a second later she was in the harness room. at the doorway she turned and peeped up at the house. from the small window of an upper chamber came the gleam of candle light: the bedroom of the inn-keeper's wife, she guessed.
with the rapidly cooling knife in one hand marion cast an experienced eye on the saddles, bridles and general gear hanging on the walls of the harness room. on a shelf above stood the only saddle whose bags were packed and buckled. desperately she struggled with the first buckle. if the document proved to be in the second bag she knew she would have to go back and heat the knife afresh.
tears of relief blinked in her eyes as she opened the bag and drew out a folded paper sealed with a large red seal. now for the knife. never before had she tried such an experiment. was the knife hot enough? gently she slid the blade under the wax. the seal came easily away. bearing the letter to the half-open door she glanced hurriedly over its contents.
the letter was written in a bold, legal hand, and was easily read. it was inscribed, with many flourishes, to the lord high chancellor of the realm. marion's eyes ran down the lines. she caught her breath painfully and went on.... 'the question being of one roger trevannion of the parish of garth, esquire. whereas the prisoner now in the county gaol, exeter, hath been found guilty of lending aid and sustenance to the king's enemies in that he did privily and treasonably forewarn one richard merrion hooper of the parish ...' marion looked farther down the page ... 'which crime should assuredly merit death; but inasmuch that the prisoner be a man of note, indeed a lord of the manor in his own parts, we lay the case before your illustrious highness in the hope that your well-known clemency may dictate terms of mercy.
'given under our hand and seal....'
with hands that seemed turned to stone marion folded the letter. mechanically she pressed the knife to the under surface of the seal. the blade was almost cold. for a few moments she stood, her hand on the doorpost for support. an owl hooting in his soundless flight across the yard made her start and drop the knife. her head swam as she stooped and picked it up. without any further delay, her teeth on her white, trembling lip, she stole across the yard into the kitchen and thrust the blade once more into the glowing embers. cold beads stood on her forehead. she knew she was fast losing control of herself. but the hideous task must be finished. it seemed an hour before the steel yielded to the heat. mechanically she wrapped the handkerchief round the handle again. as she went out she heard a chair grate loudly on the floor in the dining-room beyond. the men were moving.
a minute later and the seal was pressed home and the letter replaced.
as she buckled the saddlebag a wave of faintness overcame her and she leaned against the wall. she struggled for breath. then stepping to the door, a new thought seized her.
why allow that document to go? there were sheets of paper in her box upstairs. why not risk the enterprise still further, carry the letter upstairs and transfix the seal? yonder logs in the kitchen would be hot an hour or more.
her hand to her forehead, marion strove desperately to summon judgment and reason to the aid of her distracted thoughts. but as she stood, round and round in her head, like a clanging bell, sounded the phrases she had read. she closed her eyes. immediately before her vision came the words roger trevannion of the parish of garth, esquire.
she opened her eyes with a start. yonder men had been moving in the dining-room when she left the kitchen. as she rallied herself, voices sounded in the still night across the fields. there came the distant, quick bark of a dog. the men were returning from the blacksmith's. she stood between two dangers of detection.
with every nerve tense, trembling from head to foot, marion worked out the problem. if she destroyed the paper and the courier did not find out the substitution, the hand of the law might be stayed. she would gain time. on the other hand, the messenger evidently knew something of the nature of his mission. he would supply certain facts; and jeffreys' wrath at being duped would immediately result in a swift condemnation.
the girl started and clutched the door as the quick bark sounded again, this time much nearer.
if she let the letter go there was a faint hope of pardon, in any case she would gain a few days—four perhaps—while the man was going to london and back. it was better so. the letter should go.
just as the men opened the outer gate of the farm, marion ran back across the kitchen and stood in the passage. the innkeeper, in the middle of the dining-room, his back to the girl, was yawning loudly. the courier was emptying his last glass. like a ghost marion stole past the door and up the stairs.
