Well, and could she not supply that information also? While Captain Protheroe went free, was there not a rebel to be apprehended, a rebel or protector of rebels, surely much the same? For had he not himself confessed to Barbara that he had connived at Rupert’s escape, though knowing well his hiding place? That surely was enough to hang a man, and a man indeed deserving to be hanged, seeing ’twas undoubtedly he who had betrayed Barbara! Ah! what was this horrible temptation seizing upon her? She shuddered at the power of it. To betray a man to his death, a man, moreover, who had protected Rupert! She could not—she could not. There was dishonour in the very thought. A Winslow a traitor! traitor to the hand that helped him! "Oh, God!" she wailed, "what can I do? And how shall I live if I do it?" And yet that Captain Protheroe had betrayed Barbara in the end, she firmly believed. And Barbara had risked so much for Rupert’s sake, and Barbara was in danger, and must be saved. What mattered it then though she, Cicely, were guilty of this treachery, at the despicable thought of which she shuddered? The shame would lie hidden in her own heart, the loss of self-respect would be hers alone to bear, the matter would lie between herself and her conscience. Barbara would be saved, and what was her own peace of mind compared with the life of Rupert’s sister? Impulsively she donned her hat and cloak. She dared not pause lest her resolution should fail her, lest her terror of the man to whom she was going should sap her resolve, or her horror of the treachery weaken her determination. She descended the stairs softly, unobserved. The house was very silent. But at the door she encountered Prudence, who hurried forward eagerly to know whither she was bound. "Do not stop me, Prue," she answered in a strange, cold voice. "I am going to the White Hart Inn." "To the White Hart! Not, surely, to see——" "Yes, to see my Lord Jeffreys. I have——I have information to give him." "But Lady Cicely, you cannot go alone. ’Tis impossible. Wait at least till dad can bear you company. Nay, you must, indeed." Cicely put her aside firmly. "No, Prue, I cannot wait. That which I have to do I must do at once, or perchance ’twill never be accomplished. Leave me to go my way." She passed out into the street. Prudence stared after her in hesitation. Despite her youth, her quick burgher-wit taught her, far more clearly than Cicely, the dangers of such an errand undertaken alone. She knew, far better than did the elder girl, with her sheltered life and breeding, the nature of such men as bore the chief justice company in his nightly carouses at the White Hart Inn. "No, no," she muttered. "She cannot go alone, alone among those devils." Quickly she snatched up hood and cloak and followed Cicely into the quiet street.