Jeremy Winter grew anxious when Jasper did not return. Squire Kit was not in a state to be worried with alarms, and Jeremy, who knew the inwardness of Jasper's plans, felt the responsibility to lie upon his shoulders. He cross-questioned Jack Bumpstead, but the groom could tell him no more than that Jasper had ridden out on Devil Dick with pistols in his holsters.
Jeremy's anxiety seemed justified when a labourer arrived at Rush Heath, leading Devil Dick by the bridle. He said that he had found the horse grazing in the corner of a field not far from Rookhurst.
"'If that be'unt Master Benham's horse, may I be struck blind,' says I. And look 'ee, sir, he's bin stuck in t' shoulder wid a knife."
Jeremy examined the horse, and made light of it.
"The squire has had a spill, and lost his nag."
Jack Bumpstead and the labourer shook their heads at each other with dolorous pessimism.
"He's bin stuck wid a knife, or t' point of a hanger."
"Hedge stake, more likely."
"No, sir, it be'unt, sir. 'Tain't the sort o' mark a stake leaves."
Jeremy was vastly disturbed, but his main desire was to keep the affair from Squire Christopher and to put the gag upon these two garrulous men. Gossip always runs on ahead to make trouble, and Jeremy, man of the world that he was, had learned the value of a subtle unobtrusiveness in dealing with all happenings that touched even the edge of passion. He took the labourer aside and dealt with him wonderfully after the manner of a soldier and a philosopher. The fellow had to be persuaded into taking a pride in his own discretion.
"I be'unt for sayin' a word, sir."
"That's it; you are the right sort of fellow. We may want a man of your sense over here in a day or two. Jesse Saunders, is it? I'll keep you in mind."
With Jack Bumpstead he played the bully.
"Saddle my nag, Jack. And look you here,—not a word about this—not one word—see."
Nothing could be more ferocious than Jeremy when fierceness was a necessity. Jack Bumpstead wilted before him.
"Sure, Mister Winter, sir. I'll do as ye please."
"By George, you will, Jack; I'll take care of that. Wash the horse's wound, and plaster a little hair over it, and not a word to a living soul."
Jeremy rode out, with pistols in his pockets, and a certain significant tightness about the mouth. He knew the country well, and his conjectures pointed him toward Stonehanger. Jeremy was something of a cynic. Experience had taught him that there was truth in the saying, "Look for the woman." He had his mind's eye on Nance, and his thoughts were none of the kindest.
Riding up the steep lane at the back of Stonehanger, he found himself reining in before the gate at the very moment that a girl appeared between the two stone pillars. The hollies and laurels made a deep shade there. The white anxiousness of the girl's face struck Jeremy at the first glance. The startled way she looked at him provoked his suspicions.
He raised his hat to her.
"Miss Durrell, I believe?"
The eyes that met his were big, and most honestly troubled.
"Yes, I am Miss Durrell."
"I am trying to hear something of Mr. Jasper Benham. His horse came home this morning without him. I had an idea that he might have been at Stonehanger."
Jeremy believed in being blunt with women. He wanted to try Nance and to judge her by the way she reacted to his words. And react she did, in a way that made Jeremy rearrange his notions.
"Are you a friend of Jasper's?"
She came across the stone bridge over the ditch, the white eagerness of her face driving the cynicism out of Jeremy's mood.
"I may say so. I am his adopted uncle, and almost taught him to walk."
He eyed Nance with keen sympathy. She was all pale and intent passion. There had been none of those self-conscious changes of colour, those vain little manœuvres that so few women can forget. The girl was white steel, fine-tempered, and a little fierce.
"Did Jasper tell you where he was going last night?"
"I had been away from Rush Heath all day."
"Had he told you nothing? I have been awake all night—waiting."
Jeremy's face grew grim, but his voice was gentle.
"Miss Durrell, I know a good deal. I can guess still more."
"This Chevalier de Rothan, this so-called émigré——"
"Ah, now we have it."
"They were to fight a duel in Darvel's Wood."
The forward thrust of Jeremy's jaw became more pronounced.
"What! And the lad never told me! He went out alone against that Irish blackguard! Good God——!"
A quivering upper lip and a pair of brown eyes brought him back to Nance's outlook upon life.
"Miss Durrell, you'll forgive me—"
Her hands were gripping the folds of her dress.
"You know, it was for us. Perhaps he told you? He came to Stonehanger last night before he went to Darvel's Wood. He was so confident. He would go. He promised to ride back and tell me how it all happened."
Jeremy—that man of many experiences—slipped out of the saddle and held out a comrade's hand.
"I don't blame Jasper for this, but I do blame him for going alone. The fellow De Rothan would have stabbed him in the back for the price of a pewter pot."
Nance shivered.
"Oh, don't talk like this!"
"My dear, I ask your pardon. Winter, Jeremy Winter is my name. Where the devil is Darvel's Wood? I'll ride there at once."
"I'll come—I'll show you."
"But——"
"I must come—I must. I was going when you rode up."
Jeremy knew when a wish was not to be gainsaid. Here was a girl who leapt into the experiences of life with her whole heart. She was strong, rich, and convincing.
"My dear, can you borrow such a thing as a horse?"
"No, and I can't ride."
"Well, we must take what Nature gives us. How far is it?"
"Two miles."
"I'll walk—for the sake of sympathy."
They seemed to have known each other years by the time the oaks of Darvel's Wood rose against the white clouds of the summer sky. Their instinctive liking for each other met and kindled in these moments of suspense. Both of them were thinking of Jasper, but Jeremy coupled his thoughts with the tense, white face of this young girl.
"She's true metal; she has edge and temper," he kept saying to himself. "Confound the lad, why was he in such a damnable hurry!"
When they came to the gate that led into Darvel's Wood, Jeremy paused and looked questioningly at Nance.
"Will you stay here?"
"No, I will come with you."
He was afraid for her sake and of what he might find. But her courage persuaded him.
"Come, then. I'll fasten my horse to the gate-post."
And they entered Darvel's Wood.
It was close and oppressive in among the trees, and the summer foliage shut in the ride with massive walls of green. Flies, too, were in evidence, swarming down out of the foliage as though these two humans had entered Darvel's Wood with the particular intention of offering themselves as food. Jeremy, less imperturbable than usual, cursed the black pests and smote the air with his hat.
"The insolence of the brutes! As though we mortals walked abroad for the benefit of flies! Some day we shall wipe all these things out—and then have the earth as clean as a Dutch kitchen."
They were anxious and under strain, and showed it by their silence. Jeremy's face looked fierce. He was thinking how he would hunt De Rothan into a corner, drive his sword through the man's body, and see him double up like a doll.
Nance knew of the clearing, and Jeremy could tell that they were nearing the place—by the sound of her breathing. He had his eyes on the tracks left by Jasper's horse.
"Not far now?"
"We are there."
The clearing opened out before them with the horse tracks turning aside into it. Half the place was in sunlight, the rest smothered in umbrage, and very silent.
"Stay here, child."
He left Nance under an oak, and began to explore the place, his sharp eyes soon discovering many suggestive facts. Another horse had been ridden into the clearing, and there was a trampled place where men had fought. What was more, Jeremy found the track through the underwood that De Rothan and his men had made. Twigs were bent and broken, dead leaves kicked up. More than one man had been responsible for this.
He returned to Nance. Her eyes questioned him—like the eyes of one in pain.
"Yes, there are traces. Foul play, probably."
"Do you think that Jasper——?"
"My dear, I don't know. I have found nothing but trampled grass and broken underwood. De Rothan was not alone. He had men with him."
"The coward! He laid a trap?"
"That's what I gather."
Jeremy stood smoothing his chin and staring at the ground.
"This fellow lives over beyond the ridge—Winchelsea way?"
"No, nearer than that, off a lane between Sedlescombe and Westfield. It is called the Brick House."
"Brick House. I know the place. I shall ride there at once."
"Will you?"
"Something may be found out. I know how to deal with a man like De Rothan."
They returned through the wood to the gate, Jeremy thinking hard and saying nothing to his companion.
As he unfastened his horse, Nance spoke out, standing and looking over the lulls toward the sea. Her face was set, and her eyes hard.
"If the worst has happened, we must be revenged."
Jeremy was struck by the passion in her voice.
"We will not believe the worst yet. It is possible that they may have kidnapped Jasper for those dispatches he seized."
"Whatever has happened, my father is nearly as guilty as De Rothan."
"He may not have known."
"I have no pity. I shall make him confess everything."
Jeremy reflected a moment.
"It might be as well to let him understand that the whole business has been discovered."
They parted at the gate, Nance pointing out to Jeremy the way he should take. He lifted his hat to her devoutly.
"Keep your heart up, child. I will ride back and tell you what I have discovered."
Nance walked back slowly to Stonehanger, her mouth set in a determined line, her eyes steady with thought. She felt very bitter against her father, and in no mood to spare him in his conspiracy with De Rothan.
Anthony Durrell was reading on the bench under the yew-tree when she returned. He glanced up sharply as Nance crossed the grass, and she was struck by the narrowness of his face, and ill-balanced bigotry of the man's whole nature. But Nance had risen above fear of her father. She had youth on her side, and the strength that youth gives.
"I want to speak to you."
He put his book aside, an irritable crease appearing between his eyebrows.
"Well, what is it?"
"It is known that you are a French spy."
"Child——!"
"I know it, as others know it. You may be grateful that those who know it are my friends."
Durrell sat staring, his face vacant, mouth slightly open. Nance had expected a violent outburst, recriminations, arguments, denials.
Presently he spoke to her, making a great effort to regain his self-control.
"What do you mean, child?"
"What I have said, father. Nor is that all. This man De Rothan may be accused of murder."
Durrell's hands moved restlessly to and fro along the edge of the seat.
"Murder! I know nothing of that."
She stood looking down at him with her uncompromising eyes.
"God grant that you do know nothing. We must wait—and be patient. Remember, now, that you are at the mercy of these friends of mine—who know. It would have been better if you had trusted me a little."