He wore a light-colored roquelaure that he had unbuttoned and great riding-gloves that he pulled off to fling beside his hat; as Delia approached him she was aware of a heavy perfume mingled with the atmosphere of cold outer air without, that he carried. Timidly she took his coat by the collar and helped him with it; as she did so his hand, ice-cold, touched hers and she colored foolishly. “Thank you,” he said and crossed to the fire. Delia stood still, holding his coat; the strong perfume it was redolent of seemed to make her giddy; the close contact with his personality had been as strong, as real a thing as if some one had struck her; she turned to look at the man with a feeling that her head was spinning. He had taken some papers from his breast and was looking at them; he wore a suit of geranium-colored velvet, a waistcoat branched with silver and buttoned with brilliants; his face and the front curls of his black peruke were powdered; over his lace tie a bow of wide black velvet was tied under his chin; the scabbard of his sword was gold and he wore a number of ornaments that glittered as he moved, yet his appearance was one of gloom not gaiety, and the splendor of his superb face was marred by a look of wildness, contained and held in. Delia gave a little half-cry of surprise: “Sir,” she said faintly, “came you in this guise from France?” He looked up as if he did not understand. “I came by Romney Marsh,” he said. “Hunt’s cottage—you know it?” “I mean,” explained Delia with a great flush, “that our messengers are usually more plainly habited.” He glanced over his clothes. “Ah!” he gave a sudden smile, “merely the fashion of Paris, Miss Delia—I have escaped detection—so what matters it?” “Nothing,” she assented. “Only you look more like one of the Prince’s courtiers, Mr. Wedderburn, than the King’s friends, who usually go roughly clad.” He gave her another quick look. “See my commission, madam—” “Oh, no—” she protested. “Show it to Mr. Caryl—” “Is he coming here—soon?” “Yes—to meet you, Mr. Wedderburn.” She dropped into silence after that; he put his papers back and stared at the brown tiles, suddenly he looked at her: “How loud the bells sound,” he said, “it is Westminster is it not?” “Yes,” said Delia. He turned and stood with his back to the fire. “Why do you remain there?” he asked. “Do I frighten you that you will not come and sit down?” “You—a little confuse me,” she answered, then feeling the folly of it was silent again. Mr. Wedderburn laughed. “A plotter, Miss Delia, should not so easily be put out—you are an ardent plotter, are you not?” With a semblance of ease she crossed over to him. “I know not,” she said. “I have done nothing for my cause—as you have, sir.”