“The Argyllshire regiment is in America,” said Breadalbane, “and I hav’na’ seen Glenlyon since he left my service suddenly—disappeared—” Lord Stair seemed struck into a frowning silence for a moment. At length he asked: “Whom will they examine—these commissioners?” Breadalbane lifted his light eyes. “Sandy and Ian Macdonald who escaped—Keppoch and Glengarry—I dinna ken—what others—I am nae in their secrets.” Again in silence Lord Stair looked out across the ball-room; the delicate melody of the pavan came exquisitely through the roses. Lord Stair’s mouth curved into a little smile; he did not fear; he despised his enemies; that they had discovered such a weapon as this against him roused his bitter amusement more than his wrath. He disdained to be moved by insults raked from the very mud of the gutter; he cared nothing for tales started in Jacobite pamphlets. No remorse troubled him with regard to Glencoe; he was too sure of himself, his great position, the King’s friendship, to tremble before the Scottish Parliament. “Let them open the commission,” he said loftily, “let them listen to the lies of Highland savages. I shall not lift a finger to prevent them. They must have a party cry—as well Glencoe as any other.” He took one of the roses from the bowl on the card table and pulled idly at the curling leaves; his eyes were carelessly following the figure of his wife as her gold embroideries flashed among the dancers. Breadalbane watched him curiously. “Ye are ower easy, Lord Stair. Ye ken the ugly things the inquiry will reveal? How they took the oath and it was suppressed—for your ain purpose.” Lord Stair flicked a torn petal from his white sleeve. “I had authority to suppress what I choose, my lord,” he answered indifferently. “The oath was invalid—as it came in too late, and so I treated it. Besides, have you forgotten that I had the King’s warrant?” A faint smile touched Breadalbane’s thin lips. “Will the King stand by ye?” he asked. “Will he no’ say that he didna’ ken what he signed?” Lord Stair sat silent. Breadalbane’s keen insight had brought him to the truth. Stair thought of that day at Kensington when William had signed the order without reading it, and for the first time a vague uneasiness touched him; he turned at last, half-angrily. “Why this anxiety on my behalf, my lord?” he demanded. “You had a share in this business, yet you are safe—thanks to your prudence.” The pavan was over. Lord Stair watched his wife till she had gone out of sight with her partner; he had pulled the rose away to the heart and absently he played with the pile of petals on the table beside him. “Mae mon’s prudence,” remarked Breadalbane a little bitterly, “can take account of such a mischance as this—some one hae been working in the dark—some black steady malice hae been accomplishing this.” “The malice of the Jacks,” suggested Lord Stair with a smile.