“Won’t you answer?” she said piteously. “I have no power,” he replied sternly. “Ah, yes, as much as any of them—and I am afraid the Macdonalds—afraid of—” she paused. “Of whom?” “The Master of Stair,” she whispered. He uttered his slight reckless laugh. “Content ye—I will defend ye from the Master of Stair—on my soul, ye are a sweet thing—I will see ye next time.” She fell back, panting into the dark and he passed on into the outer room where a man was busy sorting and arranging Jacobite pamphlets. He rose to open the door. “Those are lampoons ye write?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn. The Jacobite smiled: “Yes, sir,” he said in a low voice, “I do not write them, but they are lampoons.” “Against whom?” “All the Whigs, sir—one in particular.” Mr. Wedderburn held the open door in his hand; he spoke over his shoulder: “The Master of Stair?” he asked. The Jacobite answered under his breath. “Truly that devil—the Master of Stair.” Mr. Wedderburn’s blue eyes flashed dark and fierce. “Be careful, sir, how ye offend the devil,” he said, and, banging the door furiously in the face of the Jacobite, strode off down the street. CHAPTER XIII THE MASTER’S WIFE Late that evening the Master of Stair entered his mansion in St. James’s Square and passed through the great empty house to the library at the back. This room was vast, handsomely furnished and gloomy, well-lit by hanging lamps and a great fire on the massive hearth; the walls were lined with books, the ceiling domed and painted with dark figures that appeared to mount into endless space; the chimneypiece, wreathed with heavy garlands of wooden flowers, supported a huge branched silver stand filled with candles that were reflected in the mirror behind. Dull red velvet curtains draped the long windows, and a heavy pile carpet of the same color covered the floor. In the center of the wall, facing the door, stood a large black oak desk with a bureau either side; on it lay papers and books with two grim bronze busts, labeled “Cato” and “Solon” in lettering that glittered somberly; one of the lamps hung immediately over the desk and threw a strong light down on the man who sat there reading a faded calf-bound volume. He was quietly dressed in dark brown, and his face, wrinkled, as a walnut shell, was almost hidden by the ringlets of his enormous periwig; he was thin and bent, sixty or sixty-five and had an indescribable air of ease and comfort, as if he was in his element and vastly enjoying himself. The Master of Stair paused on the threshold and glanced round the somber room. “Good-evening, my lord,” he said. The man at the desk looked up, half-reluctantly. “What o’clock is it, John?” he asked. “Between twelve and one,” answered the Master of Stair. “I am later, my lord, than I meant to be.” He came into the room as he spoke, and seated himself on one of the stiff-backed chairs by the fire.