“News from all sides is vastly satisfactory,” was the answer. “His grace of Berwick is very confident, the discontent is huge in England; we have the assurances and the signatures of Marlborough, Godolphin, Rochester, Clarendon, Lord Russell, Leeds, Cornbury, Dartmouth, Sidney and many bishops and lords—” “The whole of the Court ye might say,” cried Mr. Wedderburn, with a curious little laugh. “Tell me, are there any who have not signed?” “Nottingham,” said Jerome Caryl with a smile. “Carstairs, Sunderland, Shrewsbury, Devonshire, Dorset and the Master of Stair—these have never to my knowledge meddled with us—Nottingham, because he is a narrow pedant; Devonshire and Dorset for sheer laziness; Sunderland because we would not have him in our ranks—Carstairs and the Master of Stair....” “For honest motives, perchance,” said Mr. Wedderburn. “I do not say so—God knows. Carstairs I believe is honest—the Master of Stair is not full of scruples. I think he is faithful because he hates us bitterly and because he is a man of one view—he is sworn to the Whigs and would, I think, sell his soul for them—if it is still on the market.” “You hate him,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn. “I do—he constantly thwarts me, he is a man to be feared—but to business, Mr. Wedderburn: these papers you are to carry to France are with his grace of Berwick—give me two days and I shall have them.” Mr. Wedderburn rose: “I will call again the day after to-morrow, then,” he said, “and start immediately afterwards for France.” He put his commission back into his pocket. “You will not disappoint me?” he asked. “In two days—” “I will answer for it, you have them then,” said Jerome Caryl, “where are you staying?” “I am undecided, but any message addressed to ‘The Blue Posts,’ Covent Garden, will find me.” “I will remember it.” The King’s messenger put on his hat and coat in silence; he was not a man for commonplaces, and his haughty manners prevented them in others. He saluted the two men very abruptly and turned from the room. Jerome Caryl made no attempt to accompany him: there was a quiet dislike in his stiff bow. As the door closed, he remarked to Sir Perseus: “Middleton is crazed, I think, to trust that man with such a mission.” “I do not like him,” was the answer, “but he may be very staunch.” “He knows everything,” said Jerome Caryl, frowning. “And his credentials are such that I must trust him—but I doubt his discretion, and I wish Middleton could have sent me a man of whom I knew something.” As Mr. Wedderburn was crossing the dark, outer room he felt a timid touch on his arm; some one fleet and noiseless of foot had overtaken him. It was Delia Featherstonehaugh,—for the moment he had utterly forgotten her. “Would you do me a favor?” she said panting. He turned, but it was too dark to see her face. “Why, tell it me,” he answered. “I want you to help me save the Macdonalds of Glencoe—I have—a reason.” There was a long pause; she grew frightened.