Jerome Caryl waited for him to demand some oath or promise, to attach some condition to this cold magnanimity; he felt more utterly at this man’s mercy than when those papers lay under his hand. Suddenly the King looked up. “For what do you wait?” he demanded. “You are free—go back—to your plot if you will, only I give you this advice—take care ’ow you sign paper’—it is dangerous—_n’est pas?_” Jerome colored painfully. “My duty to my King,” he said, “must make me appear ungrateful, but without disloyalty to my cause I can assure your Highness that I will follow no unworthy means of serving your enemies.” “Such as Monsieur Grandval use’?” answered William, with a half-smile. “By Heaven, no,” cried Jerome vehemently, “I have never been of that kind.” William slightly shrugged his shoulders. “My cousin of France is _gentilhomme_,” he said, “but ’e and my uncle send Monsieur Grandval to—what would you say?—murder me—_voila tout_.” Jerome Caryl stood silent; mention of the Grandval affair was painful to any follower of the Stuart cause; the King touched the bell on his desk, and the high-nosed young man entered. William addressed him in his fluent French. “Show out this gentleman,” he said, “and if Sir John be here send him in.” He inclined his head gravely toward Caryl, who bowed slightly, not knowing what to do, for a strange bewilderment that possessed him, and without another word on either side they parted. The King looked after him with a contained face, then gave a glance of distaste at his pile of unopened letters and pushed his chair back so that his head rested against the wall; the room was full of pleasant warm shadows that flickered up and down the shining polished walls; the candlesticks and the fireirons winked and glittered and the views from the two windows showed like two pictures in cold grays and blues in great contrast to the warm light within. The palace clock struck half past-five. William drew out his watch, a sapphire in the back glittered as he moved it; it was correct; he put it back in his pocket. The door was opened noiselessly by the usher and Sir John Dalrymple entered with the ease of a man familiar and welcomed. William, still with his fingers in his watch chain, spoke without moving. “I ’ave seen your Jacobite, Sir John.” “I was surprised, sir, to meet him leaving Kensington a free man.” The Master of Stair crossed to the hearth and stood there; his face was set and his manner troubled. “Your Majesty has received the evidence of this plot from my father?” he said. “And I ’ave destroye’ it, Sir John,” answered William. “This man jus’ now, ’e burnt it.” “Burnt it!” echoed the Master. “Did your Majesty read it?” “No,” said the King. “For what use? For what end should I wish to know these people? I am tire’ of your plot; but they are mos’ ’armless—let them go.”