“How did you get them?” she asked. “The papers—how much do you know?” His lids dropped over his flashing eyes; he lifted his head still higher. “Enough,” he said. “To hang us all,” said Celia Hunt hoarsely. “My God!” “Perhaps,” he assented. “Now will you try to send a warning to Jerome Caryl?” She had fallen back a step. “No,” she said. “I shall prevent you leaving this place—” He laughed. “Who will stop me?” he asked. She swayed a little, staring at him. “You know too much,” she panted. “Oh, my God, I would give something to know what to do.” He laughed at her; with a lithe movement he came close, his right hand was loosely over his sword, the other, shapely and white, rested on his hip, thrust into the folds of his purple sash; the carelessness of his attitude stung her like a taunt. “I am a fool!” she cried passionately. “I should have waited till ye slept then bid my father settle you—you hireling spy!” “Slept here!” he answered with curling lip, “and keep a civil tongue, baggage, or I shall strike you down. I have no ceremony with your kind.” “Ah,” she whispered, “you would dare to murder me.” “I have dared God, Himself,” he answered wildly, “I know nothing you can name I would not dare—but I should disdain to murder you—” Her horror-stricken eyes dwelt on his magnificent face; her angry courage ebbed before his strangeness. “Who are you?” she asked. But he laughed, not heeding her; his eyes showed hazed and vacant. “Accursed,” he muttered—“God knows—accursed—at least one of the masters of the earth—mad perhaps—you have heard of me, belike—” He turned a distracted gaze on her; she thought suddenly that he was mad—or drunk, and cowered against the wall in personal fear. Again he laughed loudly, and moved unsteadily, lurching toward her, it was as if some passion of his soul had been suddenly loosed and blinded him. “Black magic—and blood—” he said wildly. “Cursed—always blood—and witchery—you cannot get rid of it—the thought of Hell—and the faces of your dead who died foully—your disfigured dead—and your child slaying your child—both damned—and singeing in Hell!” He stared at her with his blue eyes vague and fixed; she shrieked out thinly: “God’s name—who are you?” “We conjure in the Devil’s name!” he answered madly. “I am of the cursed Dalrymples—and I am damned in the name of John, Master of Stair!” CHAPTER XI THE MASTER OF STAIR The sound of his own name seemed to sober the man; he sank down heavily into a chair, clutching his sword, his wild vacant eyes staring before him. Celia Hunt stood dumbly regarding him, disbelief and fear in her face. The Master of Stair!