“I can make you rich,” she continued quickly. “We can do anything for you—ask it—anything. Jock can twirl Scotland round his finger. He will give ye any place ye like if ye will be silent.” A slow flush overspread Caryl’s smooth face. “Why—you can hardly know what you ask,” he said. “It is that I should sanction murder and the murder of a man who spared my life and the lives of all my friends—do you—a woman—wish to see that done?” She answered desperately: “I dinna care—if Jock is engaged in the matter—I am Jock’s wife.” She sat silent a moment, then broke forth again: “We would pay ye vera weel—consider,” Jerome Caryl laughed. “You have utterly mistaken me. I am not a spy to be bought by the highest bidder. Nothing shall prevent me from warning the Prince.” She flared into a kind of contemptuous despair. “The Prince! What is he to ye?” “A man—a gentleman—you cannot say so much for Berwick—or any of his crew.” “In your eyes a usurper,” she cried, striving to goad him, “a foreign usurper—” “Madam—he said to me—‘there are some things I will not do’—and I say the same to you now—I will not let that man be murdered.” She was silent again as if she had nothing to oppose against his resolution; she gazed in a strange terrified manner at his calm, soft face, his melancholy hazel eyes and the color of excitement leaped into her cheeks to pale and leaped thither again. “We must be near the river,” he said, and put out his hand to lift the blind. But she flung out her arm and intercepted him. “Nay—not yet—not yet—and keep the night shut out. Oh, God, the night!” The next second she was on her knees on the floor of the coach. “For pity—for God’s sake—” she cried passionately. “Ye dinna ken what it means to me—” He sprang up in his amazement and the shock of seeing her crouching before him with upturned white face, brought the color to his cheek. “Lady Breadalbane!” She clung to him in an eager agony of entreaty. “Show this mercy now—by all ye ever held dear. I canna find words to entreat ye deep enough.” “Lady Breadalbane, I must warn the Prince.” “Ye know not what ye are doing!” Down at his very feet now she pleaded; her white arms and her fallen hair hid her face as she knelt there, her voice faint with the intensity of her entreaties, as if she strove for her life—her soul. He lifted her up, trembling a little, and put her on the seat; her hands touched his and he found them cold, her head brushed his shoulder for a moment and her face was close to his. “Will ye—will ye?” she panted. “No! no!” The coach swung on its way groaning. “Where do we ride?” he demanded. “We go over smooth ground now—a country road—” “No,” she breathed, and clung to him when he would have risen and looked from the window. “No! we ride aright!” It was not London’s cobbled streets that they sped over now; smoothly and swiftly they rode along. “Where do ye take me?” he cried again. She leaned heavily against his shoulder so that he could not rise.