"You were a spy?" he said, his tone making a question of the odious statement. "A dirty spy?"
"Your incredulity is flattering, at least," said Wilding pleasantly as he repocketed the parchment, "and it leads you in the right direction. I neither was nor am a spy."
"That paper proves it!" cried Blake contemptuously. Having been a spy himself,' he was a good judge of the vileness of the office.
"See to my wife, Nick," said Wilding sharply, and made as if to transfer her to the care of his friend.
"Nay," said Trenchard, "'tis your own duty that. Let me discharge the other for you." And he stepped up to Blake and tapped him briskly on the shoulder. "Sir Rowland," said he, "you're a knave." Sir Rowland stared at him. "You're a foul thing--a muckworm--Sir Rowland," added Trenchard amiably, "and you've been discourteous to a lady, for which may Heaven forgive you--I can't."
"Stand aside," Blake bade him, hoarse with passion, blind to all risks. "My affair is with Mr. Wilding."
"Aye," said Trenchard, "but mine is with you. If you survive it, you can settle what other affairs you please--including, belike, your business with Mr. Swiney."
"Not so, Nick," said Wilding suddenly, and turned to Richard. "Here, Richard! Take her," he bade his brother-in-law.
"Anthony, you damned shirk-duty, see to your wife. Leave me to my own diversions. Sir Rowland," he reminded the baronet, "I have called you a knave and a foul thing, and faith! if you want it proven, you need but step down the orchard with me."
He saw hesitation lingering in Sir Rowland's face, and he uncurled the last of the whip he carried. "I'd grieve to do a violent thing before the ladies," he murmured deprecatingly. "I'd never respect myself again if I had to drive a gentleman of your quality to the ground of honour with a horsewhip. But, as God's my life, if you don't go willingly this instant, 'tis what will happen."
Richard's newborn righteousness prompted him to interfere, to seek to avert this threatened bloodshed; his humanity urged him to let matters be, and his humanity prevailed. Diana watched this foreshadowing of tragedy with tight lips, pale cheeks. Justice was to be done at last, it seemed, and as her frightened eye fell upon Sir Rowland she knew not whether to exult or weep. Her mother--understanding nothing--plied her meanwhile with whispered questions.
As for Sir Rowland, he looked into the old rake's eyes agleam with wicked mirth, and rage welled up to choke him. He must kill this man.
"Come," said he. "I'll see to your fine friend Wilding afterwards."