"Wait, and I will answer that." (He
understood that there was a trap here. The question had been framed
differently last time. But his mind was all a-whirl; and he feared he
might answer wrongly if he could not collect himself. He still wondered
why so many friends of his were in the room--even Father Campion....)
He drew a breath again presently, and tried to speak; but his voice
broke like a shattered trumpet, and he could not command it.... He must
whisper.
"It was in August, I think.... I think it was August, two years ago."...
"August ... you mean May or April."
"No; it was August.... At least, all that I know of the plot was when
... when--" (His thoughts became confused again; it was like strings of
wool, he thought, twisted violently together; a strand snapped now and
again. He made a violent effort and caught an end as it was slipping
away.) "It was in August, I think; the day that Mr. Babington fled, that
he wrote to me; and sent me--" (He paused: he became aware that here,
too, lurked a trap if he were to say he had seen Mary; he would surely
be asked what he had seen her for, and his priesthood might be so proved
against him.... He could not remember whether that had been proved; and
so ... would Father Campion advise him perhaps whether....)
The voice jarred again; and startled him into a flash of coherence. He
thought he saw a way out.
"Well?" snapped the voice. "Sent you?... Sent you whither?"
"Sent me to Chartley; where I saw her Grace .
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