"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. "Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. —Sorry to quit your lord—worships, I mean,—I don't know what I mean," she added, a little confused, and dropping a profound curtsey to the disguised noblemen, each of whom replied by a bow, worthy, in her opinion, of a prince of the blood at the least,—"but I've a few necessary orders to give below. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest.
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