“Yes, madam.” The words came clearly above the rumbling of the wheels. “You are going to inform,” she said, with the same steadiness. He leaned forward a little. “The Prince will not go hunting in Hampton Court on Saturday, madam.” “Ye are ganging to betray us,” said the Countess. “I knew it.” “It is not the right word,” he answered. “I shall warn the Prince—no more.” She looked at him quickly and quietly then burst out contemptuously: “Ye lie! lie! lie! Ye will gie every name ye know to the Prince!” Jerome Caryl smiled; she sat upright with clasped hands. “I knew it. When across the room I saw your face as the fule Berwick spoke of his plans. I saw that ye meant to betray us. Ah, they talk of their man’s sagacity but a woman can see clearer—Berwick did not see—I did.” “Berwick knows me better, madam.” She took no heed of the quiet words. “Ye will tell the Prince every name ye know,” she said hoarsely. “And if ye dinna—they will discover once ye have lodged the information.” She shuddered further into her corner; her whole face and figure seemed misty to Jerome in the wavering light; only her eyes, fixed on him, were clear and brilliant. “Will ye do it—will ye no reflect?” There was no doubting her controlled agitation, the distress in her accents; Jerome, who had been studying her curiously, spoke now with a deepening of curiosity; he spoke under his breath softly. “You are not involved—” he said. “For whom are you afraid?” Her eyes traveled slowly over him. “My husband,” she said intensely. He gave a little laugh and lifted his shoulders; Breadalbane was a byword for cunning hypocrisy; her devotion jarred as strangely out of place. “Others beside your husband would fall if I—or any informed,” he answered quietly. She sat up, shaking her furs to the floor. “I care only for my husband.” The coach rattled and shook and the lamp-wick leaped and flickered. “Only for my husband—and if his share in this is discovered it means ruin—if not death—to him.” The very words seemed to come with an effort from her tongue; she blenched at the bare thought of the possibility she spoke of. “I shall not mention your husband’s name,” said Jerome Caryl. “If ye put them on the track they will discover for themselves.” “Lord Breadalbane has weathered rougher storms.” “He has gone farther than ye ken—and this assassination—” Her voice trailed off into silence; she sat upright, gazing in front of her; her hands clasped in her lap; as the coach shook on its way, her hair was flung back from her face and Jerome Caryl’s sword-hilt rattled against the door; this was the only sound, this and the rattle of the wheels; he thought she was going to say no more and was marveling at her containment, when she broke the stillness by leaning over toward him. “Dinna gang to Kensington.” Her voice, suppressed, with a note of agony in it, made Jerome Caryl start.