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And the young man pointed through the open window out toward the West. Mechanically Gaston's eyes followed the direction in which his friend pointed. There, far away in the mist-laden distance, a graceful three-decker, with sails unfurled, was distinctly visible in the glow of the setting sun. She was gaily riding the waves, the soft south-easterly breeze having carried her swiftly and lightly already far out to sea.
Gaston felt an awful dizziness in his head. An icy sweat broke out upon his brow, he passed a hand across his eyes for he did not feel that he could trust them.
"That is not Le Monarque," he murmured.
"By my faith, but it is," said Mortémar, a little perturbed, for he had not thought to be conveying evil news. "I was bidding her captain 'God-speed' myself little more than an hour ago. A gallant sailor, and a personal friend," he added, "and he seemed mighty glad to get on the way."
"Whither was he bound?" asked Gaston mechanically.
"Nay! that I do not know. Barre had received secret orders only an hour before he started.."
But now Gaston felt his senses reeling.
"She must be stopped!.. she must be stopped!" he shouted wildly. "I have orders for her.. she must be stopped, at any cost!"
And breaking through the compact group of his newly found friends he made a wild dash for the door.
But the excitement, the terrible keenness of this disappointment had been too much for him, after the strenuous fatigues and the overpowering heat of the day. The dizziness turned to an intolerable feeling of sickness, the walls of the room spun round and round him, he felt as if a stunning blow had been dealt him on the head, and with a final shriek of "Stop her!" he staggered and would have fallen headlong, but that a pair of willing arms were there to break his fall.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE STRANGER
It was M. des Coutures – a middle-aged man, military governor of Le Havre – who had caught Gaston de Stainville in his arms when the latter all but lost consciousness. A dozen willing pairs of hands were now ready to administer to the guest's comforts, from the loosening of his cravat to the pulling off of his heavy riding boots.
"The mulled wine was too heavy for him," said M. le Maire Valledieu, "no doubt he had been fasting some hours and his stomach refused to deal with it."
"Tell the kitchen wench to hurry with that supper, Jean Marie," said Mortémar to mine host, "he'll be himself again when he has eaten."
"If there's a plate of soup ready, bring that," added M. Valledieu. "Anything's better than an empty paunch."
"I thank you, friends," now murmured Stainville feebly. "I fear me I must have turned giddy.. the heat and."
He was recovering quickly enough. It had been mere dizziness caused by fatigue; and then that awful blow which had staggered him physically as well as mentally! His newly found friends had dragged him back to the table close to the open window: the keen sea-breeze quickly restored him to complete consciousness.
Already he had turned his head slowly round to watch that fast disappearing three-decker, gleaming golden now in the distant haze.
His argosy which he had hoped to see returning from her voyage laden with golden freight! Somehow as first the hulk and then the graceful sails were gradually merged into the Western glow, Gaston knew – by one of those inexplainable yet absolutely unerring instincts which baffle the materialist – that all hopes of those coveted millions were vanishing as surely as did the ship now from before his gaze. He was still weak in body as well as in mind, and it was as if in a dream, that he listened to de Mortémar's carelessly given explanations of the event which meant the wreckage of so many fondly cherished hopes.
"Captain Barre broke his fast in this very room this morning," said the young man lightly, "several of these gentlemen here, as well as myself, had speech with him. He had no idea then that he would have to start on a voyage quite so soon. He left here at eleven o'clock and went back to his ship. An hour later when I was strolling along the shore I met him again. He seemed in a vast hurry and told me in a few curt words that Le Monarque had received orders to be under way as soon as the tide permitted."
"You did not ask him whither the ship was bound?" queried Gaston, speaking hoarsely like a man who has been drinking.
"He could not tell me," replied the other, "her orders were secret."
"Do you know who was the bearer of these secret orders?"
"No, but I heard later that a stranger had ridden into Le Havre at midday to-day. His mare – a beautiful creature so I understand – dropped not far from here; she had been ridden to her death, poor thing; and her rider, so they say, was near to dropping too."
"I saw him," here interposed a young soldier, "he was just outside that God-forsaken hole, 'Le Gros Normand' and politely asked me if it were the best inn in Le Havre."
"I hope you told him it was," said des Coutures with a growl, "we want no stranger here."
"Nor do we want Le Havre to have a reputation for dirt and discomfort," corrected M. le Maire.
"And I certainly could not allow a gentlemen – for he was that – I'll lay any wager on it, with any one – to be made superlatively uncomfortable on the broken beds of 'Le Gros Normand,'" asserted the young soldier hotly.
"You advised him to come here?" gasped Mortémar with genuine horror. He was the chief of that clique which desired to exclude, with utmost rigour from the sacred precincts of "Les Trois Matelots," every stranger not properly accredited.
"Ma foi! what would you have me do?" retorted the other sulkily.
"You did quite right, Lieutenant le Tellier," rejoined M. le Maire, who was jealous of the reputation of Le Havre. "Gentlemen must be under no misapprehension with regard to the refinement and hospitality of this town."
The entrance of mine host carrying a steaming bowl of soup broke up the conversation for awhile. Jean Marie was followed by a fat and jovial-looking wench, who quickly spread a white cloth for Monsieur le Comte's supper and generally administered to his wants.
De Mortémar, Général des Coutures, and M. le Maire Valledieu had constituted themselves the nominal hosts of Gaston. They too sat round the table, and anon when Jean Marie brought huge jugs of red wine, they fell to and entertained their guest, plying him with meat and drink.
This broke up the company somewhat. The other gentlemen had withdrawn with all the respect which Frenchmen always feel for the solemnity of a meal; they had once more assumed their old places at the various tables about the room. But no one thought yet of returning home: "l'heure de l'apéritif" was being indefinitely prolonged.
Conversation naturally drifted back again and again to Le Monarque and her secret orders. Every one scented mystery, for was it not strange that a noble cavalier like Monsieur le Comte de Stainville should have ridden all the way from Versailles on the King's business, in order to have speech with the commander of one of His Majesty's own ships, only to find that he had been forestalled? The good ship had apparently received orders which the King knew naught about, else His Majesty had not sent Monsieur de Stainville all this way on a fool's errand.
Eager, prying eyes watched him as he began to eat and drink, dreamily at first, almost drowsily. Obviously he was absorbed in thought. He too must be racking his brains as to who the stranger might be who had so unexpectedly forestalled him.
His three genial hosts plied him continually with wine and soon the traces of fatigue in him began to yield to his usual alertness and vigour. The well-cooked food, the rich liquors were putting life back into his veins. And with renewed life came a seething, an ungovernable wrath.
He had lost a fortune, the gratitude of the King, the goodwill of Pompadour, two and a half millions of money through the interference of a stranger!
He tried to think, to imagine, to argue with himself. Treacherous and false himself, he at once suspected treachery. He imagined that some sycophant, hanging to the Pompadour's skirts, had succeeded in winning her good graces sufficiently to be allowed to do this errand for her, instead of himself.
Or had the King played him false, and sent another messenger to do the delicate business and to share in the spoils?
Or had Lydie..? But no! this was impossible! What could she have done at a late hour of the night? How could she have found a messenger whom she could trust? when earlier in the day she had herself admitted that there was no one in whom she could confide, and thus turned almost unwillingly to the friend of her childhood.
Jean Marie's favoured customers sat at the various tables sipping their eau-de-vie; some had produced dice and cards, whilst others were content to loll about, still hoping to hear piquant anecdotes of that distant Court of Versailles, toward which they all sighed so longingly.
But the elegant guest was proving a disappointment. Even after the second bumper of wine Gaston de Stainville's tongue had not loosened. He was speculating on the identity of that mysterious stranger, and would not allow his moodiness to yield to the joys of good cheer. To-morrow he would have to ride back to Versailles hardly more leisurely than he had come, for he must find out the truth of how he came to be forestalled. But he could not start before dawn, even though fiery impatience and wrath burned in his veins.
To all inquisitive queries and pointed chaff he replied with a sulky growl, and very soon the delight of meeting an interesting stranger gave place to irritation at his sullen mood. He was drinking heavily, and did not seem cheerful in his cups, and anon even Mortémar's boisterous hilarity gave way before his persistent gloom.
After an hour or two the company started yawning: every one had had enough of this silent and ill-tempered stranger, who not only had brought no new life and animation into the sleepy town, but was ill repaying the lavish hospitality of "Les Trois Matelots" by his reticence and sulky humour.
One by one now the habitués departed, nodding genially to mine host, as they settled for their consommations, and bidding as hearty a good-night to the stranger as their disappointment would allow.
De Mortémar and Valledieu had tried to lure M. le Comte de Stainville to hazard or even to a more sober game of piquet, but the latter had persistently refused and sat with legs stretched out before him, hands buried in breeches' pockets, his head drooping on his chest, and a meditative scowl between his eyes.
The wine had apparently quite dulled his brilliant wit, and now he only replied in curt monosyllables to queries addressed directly to him.
Anon Valledieu and old Général de Coutures pleading the ties of family and home, begged to be excused. Now de Mortémar alone was left to entertain his surly guest, bored to distraction, and dislocating his jaws in the vain efforts which he made to smother persistent yawns.
It was then close on half-past seven. The final glory of the setting sun had yielded to the magic wand of night which had changed the vivid crimson and orange first to delicate greens and mauves and then to the deep, the gorgeous blue of a summer's evening sky. The stars one by one gleamed in the firmament, and soon the crescent moon, chaste and cold, added her incomparable glory to the beauty and the silent peace of the night.
Tiny lights appeared at masthead or prow of the many craft lying at anchor in the roadsteads, and from far away through the open window there came wafted, on the sweet salt breeze, the melancholy sound of an old Normandy ditty sung by a pair of youthful throats.
Fatigue and gloom had oppressed Gaston at first, now it was unconquerable rage, seething and terrible, which caused him to remain silent. De Mortémar was racking his brains for an excuse to break up this wearisome tête-à-tête without overstepping the bounds of good-breeding, whilst cursing his own impetuosity which had prompted him to take this surly guest under his wing.
Jean Marie now entered with the candles, causing a welcome diversion. He placed one massive pewter candelabrum on the table occupied by Gaston and de Mortémar: the other he carried to the further end of the room. Having placed that down too, he lolled back toward de Mortémar. His rubicund face looked troubled, great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and his fat fingers wandered along the velvety surface of his round, closely-cropped crown.
"M'sieu le Comte." he began hesitatingly.
"What is it?" asked Mortémar smothering a yawn.
"A stranger, M'sieu le Comte." stammered Jean Marie.
"What, another?.. I mean," added the young man with a nervous little laugh, feeling that the sudden exclamation of undisguised annoyance was not altogether courteous to his guest, "I mean a.. an.. an.. unknown stranger?.. altogether different to M. le Comte de Stainville, of course!"
"A stranger, M'sieu," repeated Jean Marie curtly. "He came at midday.."
"And you told us nothing about him?"
"I did not think it was necessary, nor that the stranger would trouble M'sieu le Comte. He asked for a clean room and a bed and said nothing about supper at the time… He seemed very tired and gave me a couple of louis, just if as they were half livres."
"No doubt 'twas the stranger with whom Lieutenant Tellier had speech outside 'Le Gros Normand!'" suggested de Mortémar.
"Mayhap! mayhap!" rejoined Jean Marie thoughtfully. "I took him up a bowl of sack and half a cold capon, but what he wanted most was a large wash-tub and plenty of water.. it seems he needed a bath!"
"Then he was English," commented Mortémar decisively.
But at these words, Gaston, who had been listening with half an ear to mine host's explanations, roused himself from his heavy torpor.
The stranger who had forestalled him and sent Le Monarque on her secret voyage to-day was English!
Then it was.
"Where is that stranger now?" he demanded peremptorily.
"That's just it, M'sieu le Comte!" replied Jean Marie, obstinately ignoring Gaston and still addressing de Mortémar, "he slept all the afternoon. Now he wants some supper. He throws louis about as if they were dirt, and I can't serve him in there!" he added with unanswerable logic and pointing to the stuffy room in the rear.
"Pardi!." began Mortémar.
But Gaston de Stainville was fully alert now; with sudden vigour he jumped to his feet and brought his fist crashing down on the table so that the candelabrum, the mugs, and decanters of wine shook under the blow.
"I beseech you, friend, admit the stranger into this room without delay," he said loudly. "Ma foi! you have found me dull and listless, ill-humoured in spite of your lavish hospitality; I swear to you by all the devils in hell that you'll not yawn once for the next half-hour, and that Gaston de Stainville and the mysterious stranger, who thwarts his will and forestalls his orders, will afford you a measure of amusement such as you'll never forget."
His face was flushed, and his eyes, somewhat hazy from the copiousness of his libations, had an evil leer in them and an inward glow of deadly hate. There was no longer any weakness, nor yet ill-humour, visible in his attitude. His hands were clenched, one resting on the table, the other roughly pushing back the chair on which he had been sitting.
"Admit the stranger, friend host!" he shouted savagely. "I'll vouch for it that your patron will not regret his presence in this room."
"Ma foi! I trust not," said a quiet voice, which seemed to come suddenly from out the gloom. "Gentlemen, your servant!"
Mortémar turned toward the door, whence had proceeded that gentle, courteous voice. Lord Eglinton was standing under the lintel, elegantly attired in full riding dress, with top boots and closely-fitting coat. He wore no sword, and carried a heavy cloak on his arm.
He made a comprehensive bow which included every one there present, then he stepped forward into the room.
CHAPTER XXXVI
REVENGE
We must surmise that surprise and rage had rendered Gaston speechless for the moment.
Of all the conjectures which had racked his brains for the past two hours none had come near this amazing reality. Gaston was no fool, and in one vivid flash he saw before his mental vision not only his own discomfiture, the annihilation of all his hopes, but also the failure of King Louis' plans, the relegation of those fifteen millions back into the pockets of His Grace the Duke of Cumberland.
That Eglinton had not ridden to Le Havre on the King's business but on his own, that he had not sent Le Monarque to Scotland in order that he might share in those millions was of course obvious.
No! no! it was clear enough! Lydie having found that Gaston had failed her, had turned to her husband for help: and he, still nominally Comptroller-General of Finance, had found it quite easy to send Captain Barre on his way with secret orders to find Charles Edward Stuart and ensure the safety of the Jacobites at once and at any cost.
Milor was immensely rich; that had helped him too, of course; bribes, promises, presents of money were nothing to him. Mentally he was weak – reasoned Gaston's vanity – and Lydie had commanded him.
But physically he was as strong as a horse, impervious to fatigue, and whilst Gaston rested last night preparing for his journey, le petit Anglais was in the saddle at midnight and had killed a horse under him ere de Stainville was midway.
What King Louis' attitude would be over this disappointment it were premature to conjecture. Royal disfavour coupled with Pompadour's ill-humour would make itself felt on innocent and guilty alike.
That he himself was a ruined man and that, through the interference of that weak-kneed young fop, whom it had been the fashion in Versailles mildly to despise, was the one great, all-absorbing fact which seemed to turn Gaston's blood into living fire within his veins.
And the man who had thus deliberately snatched a couple of millions or more from his grip stood there, not twenty paces away, calm, somewhat gauche in manner, yet with that certain stiff dignity peculiar to Englishmen of high rank, and withal apparently unconscious of the fact that the rival whom he had deprived of a fortune was in this same room with him, burning with rage and thirsting for revenge.
Gaston watched his enemy for awhile as he now settled himself at the table, with Jean Marie ministering obsequiously to his wants. Soon mine host had arranged everything to his guest's liking, had placed a dish of stewed veal before him, a bottle of wine, some nice fresh bread, then retired walking backwards, so wonderfully deferential was he to the man who dealt with gold as others would with tin.
One grim thought had now risen in Stainville's mind, the revival of a memory, half-faded: an insult, a challenge, refused by that man, who had thwarted him!
A coward? Eh?
These English would not fight! 'twas well known; in battle, yes! but not in single combat, not in a meeting 'twixt gentlemen, after a heady bottle of wine when tempers wax hot, and swords skip almost of themselves out of the scabbard.
Aye! he would ride a hundred and eighty leagues, to frustrate a plan, or nathless to dip into the well-filled coffers of the Jacobite Alliance – such things were possible – but he would not fight!
Gaston hugged the thought! it was grim but delicious! revenge, bitter, awful, complete revenge was there, quite easy of accomplishment. Fortune was lost to him, but not revenge! Not before his hand had struck the cheek of his enemy.
This was his right. No one could blame him. Not even the King, sworn foe of duelling though he might profess to be.
A long laugh now broke from Gaston's burning throat! Was it not all ridiculous, senseless, and puerile?
His Majesty the King, Pompadour, the Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of France, and he himself, Gaston de Stainville, the most ruthlessly ambitious man in the kingdom, all fooled, stupidly fooled and tricked by that man, who was too great a coward to meet the rival whom he had insulted.
At Gaston's laugh Eglinton turned to look in his direction, and his eyes met those of de Mortémar fixed intently upon him.
"Surely it is M. le Contrôleur-Général," said the latter, jumping to his feet.
He had paid no heed to his guest's curious outburst of merriment, putting it down as another expression of his strange humour, else to the potency of Jean Marie's wine; but he had been deeply interested in the elegant figure of the stranger, that perfect type of a high-born gentleman which the young man was quick enough to recognise. The face, the quaintly awkward manner, brought back certain recollections of two days spent at the Court of Versailles.
Now when Eglinton turned toward him, he at once recognised the handsome face, and those kind eyes, which always looked grave and perfectly straight at an interlocutor.
"Milor Eglinton, a thousand pardons," he now said as he moved quickly across the room. "I had failed to recognise you at first, and had little thought of seeing so great a personage in this sleepy old town."
Eglinton too had risen at his first words and had stepped forward, with his habitual courtesy, to greet the young man. De Mortémar's hand was cordially stretched out toward him, the next moment he would have clasped that of the young Englishman, when with one bound and a rush across the room and with one wild shout of rage, Gaston de Stainville overtook his friend and, catching hold of his arm, he drew him roughly back.
"Nay! de Mortémar, my friend," he cried loudly, "be warned in time lest your honest hand come in contact with that of a coward."
His words echoed along the vast, empty room. Then there was dead silence. Instinctively Mortémar had stepped back as if he had been stung. He did not of course understand the meaning of it all, and was so taken aback that he could no nothing but stare amazed at the figure of the young man before him. Eglinton's placidity had in no sense given way before the deadly insult; only his face had become pale as death, but the eyes still looked grave, earnest and straight at his enemy.
"Aye! a coward," said Gaston, who during these few moments of silence had fought the trembling of his limbs, the quiver of his voice. He saw the calm of the other man and with a mighty effort smothered the cryings of his rage, leaving cool contempt free play. "Or will you deny here, before my friend le Comte de Mortémar, who was about to touch your hand, that last night having insulted me you refused to give me satisfaction? Coward! you have no right to touch another's hand.. the hand of an honourable gentleman… Coward!.. Do you hear me? I'll say it again – coward – and coward again ere I shout it on the house-tops of Versailles – coward! – even now when my hand has struck your cheek – coward!"
How it all happened Mortémar himself could not afterward have said, the movement must have been extraordinarily quick, for even as the last word "Coward!" rose to Gaston's lips it was drowned in an involuntary cry of agony, whilst his hand, raised ready to strike, was held in a grip which indeed seemed like one of steel.
"'Tis done, man! 'tis done!" said the gentle, perfectly even voice, "but in the name of Heaven provoke me no further, or it will be murder instead of fight. There!" he added, releasing the other man's wrist, who staggered back faint and giddy with the pain, "'tis true that I refused to meet you in combat yester e'en; the life of my friend, lonely and betrayed, out there in far-off Scotland, had been the price of delay if I did not ride out of Versailles before cock-crow, but now 'tis another matter," he added lightly, "and I am at your service."
"Aye!" sneered Gaston, still writhing with pain, "at my service now, when you hope that my broken wrist will ensure your impunity."
"Nay, sir, but at your service across the width of this table," responded Eglinton coldly, "a pair of pistols, one unloaded… And we'll both use the left hand."
An exclamation of protest broke from Mortémar's lips.
"Impossible!."
"Why so, Monsieur le Comte?"
"'Twere murder, milor!"
"Does M. le Comte de Stainville protest?" queried the other calmly.
"No! damn you!.. Where are the pistols?"
"Yours, M. le Comte, an you will; surely you have not ridden all the way from Versailles without a pair in your holster."
"Well guessed, milor," quoth Gaston lightly. "Mortémar, I pray you, in the pocket of my coat.. a pair of pistols."
Mortémar tried again to protest.
"Silence!" said Gaston savagely, "do you not see that I must kill him?"
"'Tis obvious as the crescent moon yonder, M. de Mortémar," said Eglinton with a whimsical smile. "I entreat you, the pistols."
The young man obeyed in silence. He strode across the room to the place lately vacated by Gaston, and near which his cloak was lying close to his hat and whip. Mortémar groped in the pockets: he found the two pistols and then rejoined the antagonists.
"I used one against a couple of footpads in the early dawn," said Gaston, as he took the weapons from Mortémar's hands and placed them on the table.
"'Twas lucky, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Eglinton gravely, "then all we need do is to throw for the choice."
"Dice," said Stainville curtly.
On a table close by there was a dice-box, left there by one of Jean Marie's customers: Mortémar, without a word, handed it to Eglinton. He could not understand the placidity of the man: Gaston's attitude was simple enough, primitive animal rage, blinding him to the possibility of immediate death; excitement too, giving him a sense of bravado, an arrogant disregard of the consequences of his own provocation.
Eglinton was within his rights. He was now the insulted party, he could make his own conditions, but did he wish to die? or was he so supremely indifferent to life that he could view with perfect serenity that pair of pistols, one of which death-dealing of a surety across a narrow table, and that box of dice the arbiter of his fate?
Of a truth Eglinton was perfectly indifferent as to the issue of the combat. He did not care if he killed Gaston, nor did he care to live. Lydie hated him, so what mattered if the sky was blue, or if the sun ceased to shed radiance over the earth?
It was the supreme indifference of a man who with life had nothing else to lose.
His hand was absolutely steady as he took the dice-box and threw:
"Blank!" murmured Mortémar under his breath, as he saw the result of the throw. Yet the face of milor was as impassive as before, even though now by all the rules of chance Gaston's was the winning hand.
"Three!" he said calmly, as the dice once more rolled on to the table. "Monsieur le Comte, the choice of weapon rests with you."
Once more Mortémar tried to interpose. This was monstrous! horrible! a shocking, brutal murder!
"Monsieur de Stainville knows his own weapons," he said impulsively, "he discharged one this morning and."
"Milor should have thought of this before!" retorted Stainville savagely.
"The remark did not come from me, Monsieur," rejoined Eglinton passively, "an you will choose your weapon, I am fully satisfied."
But his grave eyes found occasion to send a kindly glance of gratitude to young de Mortémar. The latter felt a tightening of his very heart strings: he would at this moment have willingly given his fortune to avert the awful catastrophe.
"Mortémar, an you interfere," said Gaston, divining his thoughts, "I'll brand you as a meddler before the Court of Versailles. An you are afraid to see bloodshed, get you gone in the name of hell."
By all the unwritten laws which governed such affairs of honour, Mortémar could not interfere. He did not know the right or wrong of the original enmity between these two men, but had already guessed that mere disappointment with regard to the voyage of Le Monarque had not been sufficient to kindle such deadly hate: vaguely he surmised that somewhere in the background lurked the rustle of a silk petticoat.
Without the slightest hesitation now Gaston took one of the pistols in his left hand: his right still caused him excruciating pain; and every time he felt the agony, his eyes gleamed with more intense savagery, the lust of a certain revenge.
He had worked himself up into a passion of hate. Money has the power to do that sometimes; that vanished hope of fortune had killed every instinct in the man, save that of desire for vengeance. He was sure of himself. The pistols were his as de Mortémar had said, and he had handled them but a few hours ago: he could apprise their weight – loaded or unloaded – and he was quite satisfied.
It was hatred alone that prompted him to a final thrust, a blow, he thought, to a dying man. Eglinton was as good as dead, with the muzzle of a loaded pistol a foot away from his breast, and an empty weapon in his own hand; but his serenity irritated Gaston; the blood which tingled in his own veins, which had rushed to his head almost obscuring his vision clamoured for a sight of a shrinking enemy, not of a wooden puppet, calm, impassive even before certain death.
The agony as he lifted the half-broken wrist to his coat was intolerable, but he almost welcomed it now, for it added a strange, lustful joy to the excitement of this deed. His eyes, glowing and restless with fumes of wine and passion of hate, were fixed upon the marble-like face of his enemy. Then from the breast-pocket of his coat, he drew a packet of papers.
And although he was nigh giddy with the pain in his wrist, he clutched that packet tightly, toyed with it for a while, smoothed out the creases with a hand which shook with the intensity of his excitement, the intensity of his triumph.
The proofs in Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton's own writing that she was at one with the gang who meant to sell the Stuart prince for gold! The map revealing his hiding-place! and her letter to him bidding him trust the bearer whose orders – now affixed to map and letter – were that he deliver the young Pretender into the hands of the English authorities.
