“Your grace knows that is impossible—and we are watched—Sir John Dalrymple knows much—it will be impossible to mature fresh schemes—to obtain those signatures again.” “La! we don’t want ’em,” cried Berwick. “We have a scheme of our own—suggested by Mr. Porter—” he nodded toward one of the company, “it don’t want any help of the Frenchies or the Whigs—la! it’s mighty clever!” “Well, my lord,” said Mr. Porter from the other end of the table, “it is quick—and effectual.” And he laughed across at Celia Hunt. “I do not understand,” said Jerome Caryl. “There now!” giggled Berwick. “Caryl don’t understand—sink me if I did at first when they started with their hints—certainly, I didn’t!” He made a lazy gesture over his shoulder. “Come here, my lady and help us explain.” The lady came forward to the table; as the light fell over her face Jerome Caryl gave a little start; he recognized her as the Countess of Breadalbane. She appeared composed, but there was no color in her face; she addressed Berwick, utterly ignoring the rest. “Ye ken vera weel, sir,” she said in a rapid whisper, “that I and my cousin are here for the ane purpose of getting back from ye the dutiful letters my lord and my cousin indited to be sent to King James—which—seeing the plot is ruined—are better, ye ken, in the fire.” “I don’t know where they are,” smiled Berwick vacantly. “I enclosed ’em in my letter to my father—la! _I_ don’t know!” Lady Breadalbane looked as if she could have shaken him with pleasure; the even voice of Jerome Caryl broke in: “I have already told his grace that his grace’s letters to France were burnt with the rest at Kensington by the Prince.” The Countess’s green eyes flashed to the speaker’s face; she gave him a long look and flushed. Berwick’s foolish laugh rose in the pause. “That ain’t all you came for, my lady,” he said. “You know Breadalbane has promised his aid—” “Ah, hush,” she said with a look at Caryl. “Ye ken that Jock is in the Hielands and that is why I came to regain the paper—which—since it is burnt—we will be taking our leave.” Berwick stared. “La, now, ain’t you cautious!” he cried, with his pale blue eyes wide open. “You ain’t afraid of Caryl! Sink me if it don’t look like it—why Jerome Caryl is to be trusted like your own right hand.” “I hav’na’ a doot of it,” she answered quickly. “But there is na occasion for ony more than need to be kenning the part my lord takes in this—” At this a murmur arose from those who had been hushed to catch her words; Porter demanded why Breadalbane should always be shielded when better men came to the fore; and Celia Hunt muttered an audible sneer about Scottish caution. The Countess Peggy looked round the company defiantly; her eyes fell mistrustfully to the unmoved face of Jerome Caryl; an unpleasant pause was broken by the Earl of Argyll, coming forward.