But she drew herself up defiantly and flung out “How did your son die, Sir John Dalrymple! Surely there is a curse on you!” He stood motionless, staring. “I think his brother killed him,” whispered Celia Hunt. “I think your brother shot himself for hate of you—I think your sister went mad and slew her bridegroom—” “Does all the world know this?” he said in a strange voice. “Your family has been a fine subject for common talk these many years,” she answered. He gave a vacant laugh and turned on his heel. “I have borne too much for your tongue to move me much—yet—if you speak of _him_ again—my God!—I shall strike you silent!” Despite herself his tone awed her; she shrank back into the shadows and her venom died on her tongue. There was a silence. The Master of Stair picked up his hat and cloak and turned toward the door. He took a whistle from his breast and blew three times into the night. Celia Hunt cried as figures formed out of the blackness. “Arrest this girl for high treason, Captain,” said the Master of Stair in a manner quiet and courteous as a couple of soldiers stepped into the room, “and search the house—see to it she sends no messages—you will find me in Romney to-night—to-morrow in London.” “I was glad to hear your signal, Sir John,” answered the soldier, “’tis cold on these fens.” “A vile place,” said the Master of Stair. “I think the Jacobites will use it no more. You have arrested the man, Hunt?” “Yes, Sir John; we found him on the fens.” “Good-night, Captain.” He lifted his hat and was gone into the dark. Celia Hunt unpinned the Duke of Berwick’s brooch and slipped it inside her bosom before they came to tie her hands. “Maybe,” said the officer, “he or both of you will choose to turn informer.” Celia flung up her head with a jerk that loosened her hair from its pins and sent it rippling down her back: she laughed. * * * * * Sir John Dalrymple sat in his room in Romney a few hours later writing. The room was warm and comfortable; a bright fire burned on the red-tiled hearth; a lamp hung over the table; Sir John wore a scarlet satin dressing-gown that fell open on his shirt and cravat; a crystal decanter stood empty beside him and a half-filled wine-glass. He wrote with a reckless air of carelessness, his hand flew fast over the paper in a bold trailing writing; as he finished a sheet he tossed it across the table and took another. He was interrupted by some one softly entering; he looked up with an absorbed frown to see his secretary coming toward him with letters in his hand. Sir John pushed his chair back and flung down his pen; his brilliant eyes were shadowed underneath and there was a curious drag at the corners of his mouth as if he had been in great pain. “From London?” he demanded as he took the letters. “Yes, Sir John—forwarded by my lord your father to the name you gave him.” “Sit down,” said the Master of Stair. “I may need you, Melville.”