For months now Philip had been a fugitive, disguised in rough clothes, hiding in barns and inns of doubtful fame, knowing no one whom he could really trust, to whom he dared disclose his place of temporary refuge, or confide a message for his sister. Treachery was in the air; he suspected everyone. The bill of attainder had condemned so many men to death, and rebel-hunting and swift executions were in that year of grace the order of the day. "I could do nothing without you, dear," he said more quietly. "I must hide now like a hunted beast, and must be grateful for the sheltering roof of honest Stich. I have been branded as a traitor by Act of Parliament, my life is forfeit, and it is even a crime for any man to give me food and shelter. The lowest footpad who haunts the Moor has the right to shoot me like a mad dog." "Don’t! don’t, dear!" she pleaded. "I only wished you to understand that I was not such an abject coward as I seemed. I could not get to you or reach the Hall." "I quite understood that, dear. Now, tell me, you wish me to take these letters to London?" "At once. The sooner they are laid before the King and Council the better. I must get to the fountain head as quickly as possible. Once I am caught they will give me no chance of proving my innocence. I have been tried by Act of Parliament, found guilty and condemned to death. You realise that, dear, don’t you?" "Yes, Philip, I do," she replied very quietly. "Once in London, who do you think can best help you?" "Lady Edbrooke, of course. Her husband has just been appointed equerry to the King." "Ah! that’s well! Aunt Charlotte was always fond of me. She’ll be kind to you, I know." "I think you should write to her. I’d take that letter too." "When can you start?" "Not for a few hours unfortunately. The horses must be put up. We have been on the road since dawn." They were both quite calm now, and discussed these few details as if life or death were not the outcome of the journey. Patience was glad to see that the boy had entirely shaken off the almost hysterical horror he had of his unfortunate position. They were suddenly interrupted by John Stich’s cautious voice at the entrance of the shed. "Your ladyship’s pardon," said John, respectfully, "but there’s a coach coming up the road from Hartington way. I thought perhaps it might be more prudent..." "Hartington!" Brother and sister had uttered the exclamation simultaneously. He in astonishment, she in obvious alarm. "Who can it be, John, think you?" she asked with quivering lips. "Well, it couldn’t very well be anyone except Sir Humphrey Challoner, my lady. No one else’d have occasion to come down these God-forsaken roads. But they are some way off yet," he added reassuringly, "I saw them first on the crest of the further hill. Maybe his Honour is on his way to Derby." Patience was trying to conquer her agitation, but it was her turn now to seem nervous and excited.