. He watched her, deeply mystified.
She had gained the door when suddenly he moved.

"Wait!" he cried. She paused, and turned to look over her shoulder, her
hand apparently upon the latch. "You shall not go until you have told
me why you besought me to keep away from Newlington's. What is it?" he
asked, and paused suddenly, a flood of light breaking in upon his mind.
"Is there some treachery afoot?" he asked her, and his eye went wildly
to the clock. A harsh, grating sound rang through the room. "What are
you doing?" he cried. "Why have you locked the door?" She was tugging
and fumbling desperately to extract the key, her hands all clumsy in her
nervous haste. He leapt at her, but in that moment the key came away in
her hand. She wheeled round to face him, erect, defiant almost.

"Here is some devilry!" he cried. "Give me that key."

He had no need for further questions. Here was a proof more eloquent
than words to his ready wit. Sir Rowland or Richard, or both, were in
some plot for the Duke's ruin--perhaps assassination. Had not her very
words shown that she herself was out of all sympathy with Monmouth? He
was out of sympathy himself. But not to the extent of standing by to see
his throat cut. She would have the plot succeed--whatever it might be
and yet that he himself be spared. There his thoughts paused; but only
for a moment. He saw suddenly in this, not a proof of concern born of
love but of duty towards him who had imperilled himself once--and for
all time, indeed--that he might save her brother and Sir Rowland.

He told her what had been so suddenly revealed to him, taxing her with
it. She acknowledged it, her wits battling to find some way by which
she might yet gain a few moments more. She would cling to the key, and
though he should offer her violence, she would not let it go without a
struggle, and that struggle must consume the little time yet wanting to
make it too late for him to save the Duke, and--what imported more--thus
save herself from betraying her brother's trust. Another fear leapt at
her suddenly. If through deed of hers Monmouth was spared that night,
Blake, in his despair and rage, might slake his vengeance upon Richard.

"Give me that key," he demanded, his voice cold and quiet, his face set.

"No, no," she cried, setting her hand behind her. "You shall not go,
Anthony. You shall not go."

"I must," he insisted, still cold, but oh! so determined. "My honour's
in it now that I know."