“I have heard,” was the answer, “you think the government will be vexed—disturbed at it?” Jerome Caryl looked up from his letter. “They were counting on settling the Highlands forever,” he smiled. “With fire and sword—they did not reckon on more than half taking the oaths—the Master of Stair and Breadalbane intended to massacre them wholesale.” “You have clever spies to have discovered that much,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and under the table his hand was clutched tightly on his sword-hilt. “I am in England for that,” was the answer. “To serve His Majesty. I have defeated the usurper on that well-planned cruelty.” “There remain the Macdonalds,” said Mr. Wedderburn slowly. Suddenly, up to the table, came Delia. “They must be saved,” she said. Her words rang in a little pause; she was clasping and unclasping her hands nervously, she turned her pure eager face to Mr. Wedderburn. “Sir, you will help us save them?” He looked at her and laughed. “I?” he said—“I?—’tis amusing—what power have I to save these Highland savages?” She winced and turned to Jerome Caryl. “You promised me, Mr. Caryl—” Sir Perseus interrupted: “Why, Delia, what are these Macdonalds to you?” Jerome Caryl spared her an answer: “We will do what we can—” he said. “And they know the risk they run—even yet they may take the oaths.” Delia glanced at him gratefully; she was pale and her brown eyes gleamed unnaturally bright. “Good-night, sirs,” she said faintly. The three men rose; her brother kissed her cheek; Jerome Caryl came to the door with her, but she looked past him to Mr. Wedderburn, who stared at her with a curious little smile; her face went even whiter; the door fell to behind her and they heard her light footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Jerome Caryl returned to the table. “Mr. Wedderburn,” he said formally, “this is a letter from my Lord Middleton—signed by the King, charging me to collect such names of importance as I can and send the signature back by you as a means of encouraging the French to make a descent on England—” “His Majesty expects me in a day or so at St. Germains with the signatures,” was the answer. “I assure you ’tis a matter for despatch, for King Louis will not act without these names as a guarantee of a rising in England to support him should his men land.” “Lord Middleton also says that you will be the bearer of his grace of Berwick’s despatches and a full account of the plot for His Majesty’s perusal.” Mr. Wedderburn inclined his head. “Those were my orders.” “A dangerous mission,” put in Sir Perseus. “You will carry a vast responsibility with those papers.” “I have done as dangerous in the service of the King,” said Mr. Wedderburn. He turned to Jerome Caryl. “Sir—what names have you to send His Majesty?”