She had heard of him as the fiercest of Whigs, one of the most powerful men in the three Kingdoms, the friend of William of Orange—and the ruler of Scotland—yet he was here doing spy’s work and needlessly revealing himself! It was incredible; yet she had heard that the Dalrymples were mad—and accursed: if this were not he, why should he lie: claim so burdensome a title. She crept a little closer. “You are the Master of Stair?” she whispered. “You ask me to believe that?” He looked up at her and his eyes were not the eyes of any mere ordinary man, she thought. “I am John Dalrymple,” he said, “what have you heard of me that you shrink away so?” “And you do this work!” she cried. “I would trust no other man to do this work I have in hand,” he answered. “Nobles and princes are among your Jacobite plotters—we do not send hired scum to combat them. I am the Master of Stair.” “Ah! and why do you tell me?” “You!” his eyes flickered over her scornfully. “Why should I not tell you?” “Would you bribe me to your side?” she asked breathlessly. “No,” he answered; “I have accomplished my end. I know all I need to know. I touched the bottom of their plot days ago.” He rose with a sudden laugh. “Berwick and his fellow-fools! They have been too secure—did they think we had neither eyes nor ears!” Celia Hunt moistened her lips slowly with the tip of her red tongue. “What are you going to do?” she asked. He hesitated, glanced at her with gloomy scorn. “I am going to London as Andrew Wedderburn; to-morrow night I shall meet Jerome Caryl and obtain from him the names of all concerned in this last plot.” “Then?” “Then, wench, I shall put that list before the King,” he answered, “and the business will be done with—this popish scum will lie quiet a while.” “Clean work for a gentleman, Sir John,” she cried in a clear scorn. “I know some dirty knaves would not go to such lengths of treachery to save their necks—” He swung round on her; but she laughed up into his face without flinching. “Why, you can kill me,” she said, “I am a Jacobite, a smuggler, I’ve helped many a fugitive out of England and many a conspirator in—and if you are what you say, I am doubly glad to be the enemy of the government whose ministers are such as you!” “You are very reckless,” said the Master of Stair. “I shall not forget you are outside the law.” “As you are outside hope of Heaven!” she answered him fiercely. “Accursed, root and branch—you damned Dalrymples—oh, I have heard some tales of you—if you indeed be he they call the Master of Stair.” He put his hand to his side and stared down at her; he had grown ghastly white. Lithe and quick in her movements she swung close to him, the blood flushing her dark cheek. “How did your sister die?” she mocked with the courage of desperation. “As any man’s might have done,” he answered hoarsely. “How did your brother die?” she cried. “Stop!” cried the Master of Stair, “Stop!”