"To Bridgwater?" blazed Trenchard, in a passion at the folly of the suggestion. "You're clearly mad! All the King's forces will be there in an hour or two."
"No matter," said Wilding, "I must go. I am dead already, as it happens." And he related his singular adventure in Feversham's camp last night.
Trenchard heard him in amazement. If any suspicion crossed his mind that his friend's love affairs had had anything to do with rousing Feversham prematurely, he showed no sign of it. But he shook his head at Wilding's insistence that he must first go to Lupton House.
"Shalt send a message, Anthony. Walters will find some one to bear it. But you must not go yourself."
In the end Mr. Trenchard prevailed upon him to adopt this course, however reluctant he might be. Thereafter they proceeded to make their preparations. There were still a couple of nags in the stables, in spite of the visitation of the militia, and Walters was able to find fresh clothes for Mr. Trenchard above-stairs.
A half-hour later they were ready to set out on this forlorn hope of escape; the horses were at the door, and Mr. Wilding was in the act of drawing on the fresh pair of boots which Walters had fetched him. Suddenly he paused, his foot in the leg of his right boot, and sat bemused a moment.
Trenchard, watching him, waxed impatient. "What ails you now?" he croaked.
Without answering him, Wilding turned to Walters. "Where are the boots I wore last night?" he asked, and his voice was sharp--oddly sharp, considering how trivial the matter of his speech.
"In the kitchen," answered Walters.
"Fetch me them." And he kicked off again the boot he had half drawn on.
"But they are all befouled with mud, sir."
"Clean them, Walters; clean them and let me have them."
Still Walters hesitated, pointing out that the boots he had brought his master were newer and sounder. Wilding interrupted him impatiently. "Do as I bid you, Walters." And the old man, understanding nothing, went off on the errand.
"A pox on your boots!" swore Trenchard. "What does this mean?"
Wilding seemed suddenly to have undergone a transformation. His gloom had fallen from him. He looked up at his old friend and, smiling, answered him. "It means, Nick, that whilst these excellent boots that Walters would have me wear might be well enough for a ride to the coast such as you propose, they are not at all suited to the journey I intend to make."
"Maybe," said Nick with a sniff, "you're intending to journey to Tower Hill?"