“It’s mair than that, my lord—is this story that makes England and France shout shame on us and the mob pelt us as we pass, a mere invention of the Jacks? Ye hae a bitter secret enemy—my lord—canna ye guess at one wha might do this thing?” Lord Stair dragged the pilfered rose across the table, leaving the gold pollen dust staining the inlaid wood; he still smiled. “I know of none—my enemies are numerous—but not—my lord, secret.” The violins commenced a gavotte. Lady Stair crossed the floor, Mr. Wharton was her partner; her husband looked at them and reflected that Mr. Wharton was too often in Edinburgh; these three years had not softened his dislike of the good-humored beau. Breadalbane spoke again. “Ye are mistaken—the maist deadly of your enemies is the hidden one wha hae trumped up this tale.” “Maybe it is an enemy of your own,” answered Lord Stair. “Maybe you, my lord, are the object of this spite.” “It is na directed against me—if I fall it will be only in complication wi’ ye—they hav’na’ mentioned me—it is always ye, Lord Stair.” A little silence fell; no voices broke the spirited measure of the gavotte; Lord Stair trifled lazily with the ruined rose; Breadalbane watched him covertly. The candle-light gleamed softly on the round arms and bare shoulders of the women as they passed between their partners and courtesied, each reflected in the long mirrors lining the room, so that three Lady Stairs appeared to be dancing, one in profile, one full face, one with her back, all clad in satin that caught rippling lights and gleaming shadows, all smiling, faintly. Lord Stair spoke at length. “My letters—that I wrote at the time of this affair—you kept them?” “They were vera imprudent—yes, I kept them.” Lord Stair lifted his blue eyes; they were dark, a little troubled. “You can give them back to me, my lord, there is no need for them to serve Tweeddale’s turn.” The music crashed to its climax; the three Lady Stair’s advanced, receded, bowed with the glittering shaking of a cloud of gold embroideries. “Send me those letters,” repeated Lord Stair. “I shall be obliged, my lord.” A curious look passed over Breadalbane’s face. “They are nae langer in my possession.” “What do you mean?” “Tweeddale sent for them—to be examined—wi’ your letters to the Commander of the Forces.” Lord Stair flushed and turned quickly in his chair. “And you sent them?” Breadalbane smiled. “Yes.” “Now—by heaven, my lord, that was ill done!” Unmoved, Breadalbane lifted his shoulders. “I must show my authority—I canna tak’ the blame—ye wrote them, ye must even tak’ the—credit, Lord Stair.” “You have treated me unworthily.” The Earl of Stair was breathing fast, he clenched his hand on the rose petals and his angry eyes glanced disdainfully over his companion; but Breadalbane kept his composure. “As ye mak’ naething o’ the affair,” he remarked dryly, “ye dinna need to care that the Marquis o’ Tweeddale will be reading your letters.”