"No, no," he muttered. "If you will excuse me..."

"Not I," said Trenchard, drawing from his hesitation a shrewd inference
as to Richard's business.

"To drink alone is an abomination I'll not be guilty of."

"But..." began the irresolute Richard.

"Shalt urge me no excuses, or we'll quarrel. Come," and he moved on,
dragging Richard with him.

A few steps Richard took unwillingly under the other's soft compulsion;
then, having given the matter thought--he was always one to take the
line of least resistance--he assured himself that his sentryship was
entirely superfluous; the matter of Blake's affair was an entire secret,
shared only by those who had a hand in it. Blake was quite safe from all
surprises; Trenchard was insistent and it was difficult to deny him;
and the sack at the White Cow was no doubt the best in Somerset. He gave
himself up to the inevitable and fell into step alongside his companion
who babbled aimlessly of trivial matters. Trenchard felt the change from
unwilling to willing companionship, and approved it.

They mounted the three steps and entered the common room of the inn.
It was well thronged at the time, but they found places at the end of a
long table, and there they sat and discussed the landlady's Canary for
the best part of a half-hour, until a sudden spatter of musketry, near
at hand, came to startle the whole room.

There was a momentary stillness in the tavern, succeeded by an excited
clamouring, a dash for the windows and a storm of questions, to
which none could return any answer. Richard had risen with a sudden
exclamation, very pale and scared of aspect. Trenchard tugged at his
sleeve.

"Sit down," said he. "Sit down. It will be nothing."

"Nothing?" echoed Richard, and his eyes were suddenly bent on Trenchard
in a look in which suspicion was now blent with terror.

A second volley of musketry crackled forth at that moment, and the next
the whole street was in an uproar. Men were running and shots resounded
on every side, above all of which predominated the cry that His Majesty
was murdered.

In an instant the common room of the White Cow was emptied of every
occupant save two--Trenchard and Westmacott. Neither of them felt the
need to go forth in quest of news. They knew how idle was the cry in
the streets. They knew what had taken place, and knowing it, Trenchard
smoked on placidly, satisfied that Wilding had been in time, whilst
Richard stood stricken and petrified by