“Good-afternoon, Mr. Caryl,” said William of Orange with a little nod. “Will you sit down? The stool is ’ard, but you save there a chair more comfortable.” Jerome Caryl bowed. “I do not look for ease in Kensington, your Highness,” he answered, and remained standing. The King took a packet from the bureau drawer, and placed it beside his hand. At sight of it the color came anew into Jerome Caryl’s face. He recognized the familiar leathern case. “Milor’ Stair,” said William, “send this me—it is yours—you know it—_n’est pas?_” “It is mine,” replied Jerome coldly. “It was stolen from me by one of your Highness’ ministers.” The King looked at him steadily. “Yes, it is so,” he said. “You ’ave been outwit’. Mon Dieu! sometime it is to be expect’! Sir John ’ave not a ’ead for plot—but you—you ’ave behave’—like the fools.” With the same perfect composure and unmoved face, he opened the case and took out the papers. Jerome noticed that the seals were not yet broken. “We are prepared to pay for being fools, your Highness,” he said coldly. “It is to be hope’,” remarked William dryly. “You can all do that—you foreigners—when you ’ave play’ the fool you can pay for it.” His eyes flashed for a moment to Jerome Caryl’s steady presence, then fell to the letter he held. “This,” he said, “is a letter for my uncle at St. Germains. I believe ’e get many such—_pourquoi non?_” He took up the next paper, then put it down and laid his small, high-bred hand over it; the upper part of his face was hidden in the shadow of his hat, but Jerome fancied he detected a faint smile on the thin lips, and it fired his blood. “Sir,” he demanded, “may I ask what you want of me? Where this leads? I deny nothing.” “It would be mos’ foolish,” interrupted William. “It is prove’.” “Will your Highness then make an end?” “That is not the way in this mos’ advance’ country,” answered William, and now there was no mistaking the smile. “My cousin in France ’as the _lettres de cachet_—but ’ere we ’ave the trial, the witness, the lawyer—all mos’ fair.” He leaned back on his chair and his smile deepened. “It is amusin’ ’ow you plot for the King you yoursel’ throw out. This is a list for my cousin (or Monsieur de Louvois) signe’ by all you could persuade—_n’est pas?_” He sat up with a rattle of his sword-hilt against the chair. “Who of my courtiers ’ave their names there?” he said, tapping the sealed paper. “It is mos’ amusin’, but, monsieur, it is not new to me. Per’aps you think I am thick head, and do not know who betray me—Mon Dieu! I think I tell you almos’ all the names there.” “Your Highness employs many of the men whose names you will find there,” said Jerome, “and there are many more whom your Highness has never heard of, country gentlemen, honest small folk all over England whom you can ruin at once—you can be revenged on your servants and these others, your Highness, by merely opening that paper.”