“Where is Lady Dalrymple?” he asked drearily. Viscount Stair shut his book and so turned in his chair that he faced his son. “Gone to the ball at Kensington,” he answered dryly, “accompanied by Tom Wharton.” “Why did you permit it?” flashed the Master of Stair. The father shrugged his shoulders. “You must manage your own wife, John,” he answered. “Everybody is at the ball. Tom Wharton is as good as another.” Sir John interrupted him: “Tom Wharton is the greatest rake in England,” he said. “I do not choose to have him across my threshold—when I returned from Romney this morning you told me Lady Dalrymple was at the Toyshop with him—now you tell me they have gone to the ball together.” “Why didn’t you go yourself?” asked the Viscount calmly. “Who do you think is to take her about?—she must be seen at Court sometimes.” “I was better employed,” answered the Master. “You know well enough, my lord, that I have it in hand to crush this rising—this plot—I am but now from one of these Jacobite dens where I have been aping the part of King’s messenger from France.” “In those clothes?” asked his father sarcastically. The Master of Stair answered impatiently: “I forgot them. I had been dining with Montague, and went straight on to the meeting-place.” Viscount Stair gave an unpleasant smile. “Well,” he said calmly, “you have a fine head, John, you make a good many slips—a number of false steps. Take care the last isn’t up Tower Hill.” He spoke with an air of abstraction, as if, himself indifferent to everything, he could still feel cynically amused at the blunders of others. His son gave him an angry glance. “I have not deserved this, my lord; I have kept inside the law during many storms, and now I _am_ the law.” The Viscount leaned a little forward; as he moved it was noticeable that his neck was wry, a defect that gave him the appearance of leering over his shoulder as if he listened to some one who whispered there at his ear. “_I_ have kept you inside the law,” he said. “_My_ advice has guided you so far—you reckless fool if you had asked me you had not gone among conspirators in that habit.” He pointed mockingly at the gorgeous dress of his son whose anger rose the more at his tone. “Sir,” he said. “I have achieved my purpose for all I am such a fool—they were deceived.” “Being bigger fools,” commented the Viscount. “I say, I am at the bottom of their plot,” flashed the Master. “In two days’ time I shall have every detail to put before the King.” The Viscount regarded him unmoved. “Go warily,” he said, and his cunning old face wrinkled into an unfathomable smile. “You stand dangerously high, John, and you are dangerously reckless, John.” “And you, my lord?” demanded the Master. “I? I do not meddle in your schemes, my son. I am a safe spectator—and I find it amusing—sometimes—now and then it is tiresome—your wife is tiresome, John.”