The secretary, meek and fair, sat down at the further end of the table and began mending a pen. Sir John took up the first of his letters and glanced over it eagerly. “From Breadalbane,” he said. “More of these cursed clans have come in—but the Macdonalds remain obdurate—I am glad of it.” He dashed the letter down. “Melville, you will get me those maps of the Highlands I spoke of—I must see Breadalbane—he is in London now—his caution allows him to put but little on paper.” “Yes, Sir John,” answered the secretary and noting his master’s angry tone he gave him a furtive glance and saw him still brooding gloomily over Breadalbane’s letter. There followed a long pause of utter silence; then the secretary was roused into a start by a letter being flung down the table with a force that sent it onto the carpet by his feet; he was used to sitting quiet under stormy episodes and with an unmoved face he went on mending the pen; but he gave a covert glance at the letter. It was one of those he had brought up; the seal was still unbroken and the inscription was in a woman’s hand; a writing the secretary knew very well since it was that of Sir John’s wife. Another silence broken at last by the Master of Stair: “A letter from the King,” he said, “put it with the others, Melville.” “His Majesty does not know you have left London, Sir John?” “No—nor need he—I intend to say nothing of this plot till I have discovered everything. I’ll have no more Dangerfield scares to make the Jacks laugh. You will take heed, Melville, that you do not mention to any this visit to Romney.” The secretary assented meekly. The Master of Stair leaned back in his chair; above his red gown his colorless face showed of a ghastly pallor. “I will write to Breadalbane,” he said, “I will dictate the letter.” Melville drew a sheet of paper toward him and dipped his pen in the ink. “Head it Kensington,” said Sir John. “And say—I am sorry Glengarry and Keppoch are safe—but glad Makian has not come in—it will be a great work of charity to be exact in rooting out that damnable race—the worst in all the Highlands. I rejoice that they have not taken the oaths.” The secretary’s pen went busily over the paper; Sir John took up his wine-glass and emptied it slowly. “That is all,” he said. “Fill that out.” The secretary handed the finished letter across the table and Sir John signed it, then fell back again in his chair. In silence, Melville put the papers together. “There in my own hand—for my son in Holland,” said the Master of Stair. “Put them up—maybe the child will never read them, nevertheless send them.” He put his hand to his head and the strange distortion of his mouth deepened, marring his face. Melville cleared the table and put the letters neatly into a portfolio; wiped the pens and took away the inkstands; his quiet movements did not disturb the silence. “Give me that letter on the floor,” said the Master of Stair, suddenly.