The Master of Stair bowed and bit his lip. The King crossed to the chair by the fire and sank into it with an air of weariness. “About Scotlan’,” he said disinterestedly. “These ’ighlander’ ’ave all come in?” He was not looking at the Master, and did not see the glance Sir John gave him. He answered in a voice unnaturally controlled: “All save the Macdonalds of Glencoe, your Majesty.” “Ah?” said the King indifferently. “Will you, sir, ring the bell for the candle?” Sir John obeyed. His face was hard, his lips set into a curious smile. He glanced again at the man by the fire and his eyes wore an unpleasant expression. There was silence till the entry of the usher, then William turned in his chair. “You will find there,” he said to him, in French, “letters to Heinsius and Waldeck—see that they are sent to-night.” Again a pause. A somber servant entered and lit the candles, drew the curtains; the little room grew golden from end to end. By the table stood the Master of Stair, motionless; he had drawn a paper from his pocket and held it down by his side, his handsome face now its usual pallor and the strange drag about the mouth, a distortion that gave a certain terror to his expression. William leaned back in his chair, his profile, with the high nose, arched brows and sunken cheek, was clearly revealed in the candle-light; his hands showed startlingly white against his black dress, and a diamond on his first finger glittered with many colors. The usher took up the papers and left, the door closed softly behind him. Sir John Dalrymple turned slowly to the King. “I have a paper here for your Majesty’s signature,” he said quietly. “Of no importance—merely a letter to the Commander of the Forces in Scotland, relative to the preserving of the peace.” “And is that all the business you ’ave for me?” “It is, your Majesty,” Sir John spoke with lowered lids. William sat up in his chair. “Well, ’and it me,” he said. “Bring the pen.” Sir John brought a pen and the paper. “It is nothing of importance?” asked William, looking at the folded sheet. “Of none whatever, sir.” The King affixed his great scrawling signature. “Take it to Milor’ Nottingham for the countersign, Sir John.” “Sir, Lord Nottingham is not at the palace to-night, and it is desirable that this go immediately.” William took the letter, opened it, laid it on his knee, signed it again at the top, and handed it back to Sir John. “I thank your Majesty,” said the Master of Stair with a little smile. The King lay back in his chair. “There is nothing more to-night, I think, Sir John.” “Sire, I take my leave.” “You will come with me to the continent in a few days, _n’est pas_? Good-evenin’, Sir John.” The Master of Stair bowed. “Take care of the tulip, Sir John—the other day Milor’ Devonshire ’e knock the tips off.”