"Why, yes," she answered, but her voice faltered a little, and her glance was not quite so fearless. She, too, saw at last the pit he had dug for her. He leaned forward, smiling quietly, his voice impressively subdued, and launched the bolt that was to annihilate the credibility of the story she had told.
"Can you, then, explain how it comes that that wrapper has been suppressed? Can you tell us how--the matter being as you state it--in very self-defence against the dangers of keeping such a letter, your brother did not also keep that wrapper?"
Her eyes fell away from his face, they turned to Albemarle, who sat scowling again, and from him they flickered unsteadily to Phelips and Luttrell, and lastly, to Richard, who, very white and with set teeth, stood listening to the working of his ruin.
"I... I do not know," she faltered at last.
"Ah!" said Trenchard, drawing a deep breath. He turned to the Bench. "Need I suggest what was the need--the urgent need--for suppressing that wrapper?" quoth he. "Need I say what name was inscribed upon it? I think not. Your Grace's keen insight, and yours, gentlemen, will determine what was probable."
Sir Rowland now stood forward, addressing Albemarle. "Will Your Grace permit me to offer my explanation of this?"
Albemarle banged the table. His patience was at an end, since he came now to believe--as Trenchard had earlier suggested--that he had been played upon by Ruth.
"Too many explanations have I heard already, sir," he answered. He turned to one of his secretaries. In his sudden access of choler he forgot his colleagues altogether. "The prisoners are committed for trial," said he harshly, and Trenchard breathed freely at last. But the next instant he caught his breath again, for a ringing voice was heard without demanding to see His Grace of Albemarle at once, and the voice was the voice of Anthony Wilding.