“I hope Wedderburn will not keep me waiting,” he said in a low voice. “He was to cross from France and arrive at Romney on the twentieth—meet me in London at ‘The Sleeping Queen’ on Christmas Eve—where we shall stay—I told you—’tis ostensibly an inn, but they have a secret press there.” “Ah—with Breadalbane in the next room—hush!” said Perseus anxiously. “Breadalbane himself will be one of us before we have finished,” smiled Jerome. “And besides I have faith in the walls—as I was saying, I can hardly proceed without these instructions from France, and I hope the storms will not delay Wedderburn.” As he spoke they heard the wind whistle and struggle at the ill-fitting windows and the snow falling down the chimney hiss into the fire. “Dangerous weather for the packet to cross,” whispered Delia. “It has done it in worse,” said Jerome. “And there is less fear of detection—government spies are not likely to be on Romney Marsh this time of the year.” Sir Perseus laughed. “What fools the Dutchman is served with!” he said. “Think of the times that packet has run to and fro—think of the messages sent—the cargoes of Jacobites shipped—and no one has ever suspected—” “Our agent, Hunt the smuggler, is trustworthy—and well-paid,” answered Jerome. “And his hut is desolate enough.” Delia suddenly stopped by the table and caught up her untasted wine. “God give us luck once more!” she said impulsively. “To the safety of King James’s messenger!” “Heaven preserve him,” cried Sir Perseus, drinking. His sister gave him a bright defiant glance. “Him and the Macdonalds o’ Glencoe!” she said a little wildly. “God preserve!” “Amen!” said Jerome Caryl. CHAPTER X THE KING’S MESSENGER It was snowing fast over Romney Marsh; the whole wide, desolate fenland sweeping to the sea lay gray under the storm; it was near nightfall and almost dark; in the landscape one light burning brightly through the snowflakes; to judge by its steadiness it came from a window, by its size it was far-off. There was the steady sound of the thud of the distant waves, now and then broken by the thin cry of the curlew or the hungry shriek of the sea-gull. In the broken marsh-ground grew a group of withered trees; the foremost bent and blasted by lightning and against this one leaned a man wrapped in a long cloak. He was looking toward the sea in an attitude, alert but easy; he appeared to be affected neither by his isolated position, the gloomy scene or the bitter storm; now and then he turned toward the distant light as if to assure himself it was still there, or moved to shake the snow off his shoulders and hat. As it grew darker the snow began to cease over the sea, and the heavy sky broke into a patch of gloomy red and crimson; it was possible now to discern the dreary line of shore and sand and the dim form of the dark waves.