“Why, I shall keep them,” he answered, “and if you speak I shall send them to His Majesty—but while you are silent you are safe—you have my word for that.” “Your word!” she echoed, “your word!” “It is as good as that of other men,” he said, “at least you must take it—or if not—well—speak and the papers go to the King.” He turned on his heel abruptly as if suddenly weary of the situation and crossed the room to an inner door which he swept through without a backward look, and closed heavily behind him. Delia came slowly from her place to where he had stood; slowly she drew her right glove off and with her bare hand timidly touched the marble chimneypiece; then her fingers fell to the spot where his had rested and she caressed the wreathed faun lightly. Her face was flushed and enthralled; fierce suppressed sobs rose in her throat; she stooped at last and set her lips to the cold marble, rested her cheek against it an instant, then drew herself erect, scarlet with shame. She picked up her glove, her muff, and went from the room, slowly down the gloomy magnificent stairs and out into the cold waning afternoon. The Master of Stair, waiting her coming, watched her from an upper window. It was beginning to snow and he noticed how she struggled in the teeth of the driving wind as she passed round the square; she was the only soul abroad on foot. As he looked at her, one of his violent impulses seized him to tear to pieces those papers she asked for and scatter them after her; had he had them there upon him he would have turned and cast them into the fire; scheming and intrigue were hateful to him; he wanted the straightforward action; to crush the Jacobites high-handedly, not hold a terror over a woman’s head. And the generous action would not in this instance be very costly; as she had said he had his spies on all the ringleaders. Berwick was powerless without his French army and Louis would never send an army till he obtained those letters that would never reach him; the men who had signed those documents would be too frightened by their loss to sign others, certainly he could afford to forego a mere vengeance. He proceeded to act at once on his impulse; he went to the Viscount who had the papers, and demanded them. His father looked up and laughed. “You want to destroy them,” he said dryly. “I have been expecting it—why were you keeping them so long? You are not as adamant as you suppose, John—some one has moved you.” “Give me the papers, my lord,” answered Sir John sullenly. The Viscount shrugged his shoulders. “It is impossible.” “Why, my lord?” His father twisted his wry neck and gave a little smile. “I sent them to His Majesty this morning.” CHAPTER XX ON THE VERGE OF MADNESS “You have sent it to the King—the packet?” ejaculated the Master of Stair. “I have. It was time,” answered the Viscount. “My lord—why was I not consulted?” flashed his son.