“I beg your grace’s pardon.” But he went on, none the less. “Your grace, perhaps, is not aware of the extent of the panic in the City over this pestilence. The cry everywhere is that it is a visitation provoked by the sins of the Court. That’s what the canting Nonconformist preachers have put about. And if this thing that your grace contemplates....” “My God!” thundered Buckingham. “But it seems you presume to advise me in spite of all.” Bates fell silent; but there was obstinacy in every line of him as he stood there facing his master now. More calmly Buckingham continued: “Listen, Bates. If we are ill served on the one hand by the pestilence, we are very well served on the other. To carry Miss Farquharson off while she is playing at the theatre would be to have a hue-and-cry set up at once that might lead to discovery and unpleasant consequences. But the Lord Mayor has ordered the closing of all theatres on Saturday, and it is on Saturday after the theatre, therefore, that this thing must be done, when Miss Farquharson will no longer be missed and her disappearance give rise to no excitement--particularly at a time when this very fear of the plague is giving people enough to think about.” “And afterwards, your grace?” “Afterwards?” “When the lady makes complaint.” Buckingham smiled in his knowledge of the world. “Do ladies ever make complaints of this kind--afterwards? Besides, who will believe her tale that she went to this house of mine against her will? She is an actress, remember; not a princess. And I still command some measure of authority in this country.” But Bates solemnly shook his head. “I doubt if your grace commands enough to save my neck should there be trouble, and trouble there will be. Be sure of that, your grace. There’s too many malcontents abroad, spying the opportunity to make it.” “But who’s to accuse you?” cried the Duke impatiently. “The lady herself, if I carry her off for you. Besides, has not your grace said that the house is to be taken in my name? If more were wanted, that would supply it. I am your grace’s very dutiful servant, and God knows I’m not overscrupulous on the score of my service. But ... not this, your grace. I durstn’t.” Amazement and scorn were blent on Buckingham’s countenance. He wanted to explode in anger and he wanted to laugh at the same time at the absurdity of finding an obstacle in Bates. His fingers drummed the table what time he reflected. Then he determined to cut the game short by playing trumps. “How long have you been in my service, Bates?” “Five years this month, your grace.” “And you are tired of it, eh?” “Your grace knows that I am not. I have served you faithfully in all things....” “But you think the time has come when you may pick and choose the things in which you will serve me still. Bates, I think you have been in my service too long.” “Your grace!”