The authenticity of number 383, James Talbert, could not be questioned. His curling, brown-blondish hair and classic Scot features, his square but emaciated form, all fit the known facts: the prisoner who would not be disciplined, who had escaped mentally ill, and on the verge of death. Even now he wore a look of defiance. But the other, number 406, was all wrong. While no physical descriptions were listed on the tally sheet he held, this surely could not be a man who had fled across half the country, hunted and desperate, remaining with and protecting his doubly afflicted companion. Beside the physical anomalies---the body before him was lean, but not from hunger, and bore no other signs of a destitute existence---he could find no indication in the pale, languid countenance of the necessary courage and character to survive such an ordeal. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine a face that exhibited less character, or spoke of a nature so obviously low and unseemly. And what of the way he had been killed---by a single, clean blade-thrust to the heart? Why wouldn't mounted patrols simply shoot him, if it came to it, rather than dismount, and engage in hand-to-hand fighting? Such a confrontation, with such a result, seemed unlikely at best. And to think of it, why had Talbert been shot in the back? A dying man, and one of his fiery and unstable temperament, was not likely to turn and run from his final meeting with the hated English pursuers. But the most damning evidence required no such speculation. As an underling reluctantly turned the red-haired man onto his stomach, the discrepancy was plain. The brand just below the left shoulder was not a scar, but an unhealed burn, perhaps not even inscribed while the man still lived. Earl Arthur had the weapon he needed. But there was more to come. Upon returning to his chambers to mull over the discovery, and think how to use it to greatest advantage, he had found an old woman still at work on the rooms. He started to leave for the solitude of an adjacent library, when she accosted him with her knowing voice. "Begging your lordship's pardon," she said, eyeing him steadily. "If you will forgive me, speaking so bold, I have words about my master you may find worthy of your attention." The Secretary did not think to remind her of her place, as he normally would have done. This was the very type of disclosure he had sought, and been unable to secure, from all the local persons his men had questioned. Fear seemed to padlock their jaws, and even the promise of reward (and protection from Lord Purceville's wrath) could not induce them to speak. So seating himself graciously on one side of a small table, he bid her sit down on the other, and the interview began.