“Deadly enough, were they discovered,” commented the other, dryly. “We are confident that His Majesty selected a messenger who would see they were not discovered,” said Sir Perseus, putting the papers back into their case. Mr. Wedderburn gave a sudden laugh and rose. “Sir, my life upon their safe delivery to—the King.” “Sir—it is a weighty trust,” answered Sir Perseus gravely. “The lives and honors of many men—the fate of a kingdom.” Mr. Wedderburn made no answer and presently he began to pace the room in a manner that at last attracted the other’s attention; he began to look at him curiously; he noticed that the King’s messenger appeared absorbed, gloomy, as if he reined in high passions, that his face was unnaturally pale and shadowed under his brilliant eyes as if he had been through great pain or sleeplessness. Sir Perseus studied him covertly, with a growing uneasiness; he did not look like a man in the mood to undertake a difficult enterprise. Mr. Wedderburn meanwhile continued walking heavily to and fro, as if utterly careless of the impression he might make. It grew late; Sir Perseus expressed a wish that Mr. Caryl might return. “It matters not—I have a good horse without,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and fell into his silence again. A strange and utterly undefinable sense of distrust and fear came over Sir Perseus; his hand went out and instinctively covered the leathern case while he eyed his restless companion. The longer he watched this silent man and noted his lithe strength, his brooding face, his reckless pose and his strange, wild eyes, the more his unreasoning fear increased; he began to long for the return of Jerome Caryl, to resolve that he would not part with the papers until that return. Mr. Wedderburn broke the silence by ringing the bell and calling for wine. When it came they drank together in a curious heavy stillness, as if both knew something was impending, yet could not speak of it. Mr. Wedderburn drained his glass in a kind of fierce haste, then fell again to his pacing, the other watching intent and tense. It struck eight. Neither remarked on the passing of the time; the man at the table slipped the leathern case into the breast of his coat, why, he could not have told, save that he felt unnerved. Mr. Wedderburn came at last to a sudden stand on the hearth, the firelight full on his handsome face. “What do you write?” he asked. “Pamphlets—lampoons—” was the answer. “Ah—on whom?” “Naturally—the Williamites.” “And you circulate them?” “Successfully—into Kensington, itself.” “You are daring—and fortunate,” frowned Mr. Wedderburn. Sir Perseus looked at him with an honest, puzzled face; he could neither understand the man nor his own sense of uneasiness. “What are these?” asked the other, and crossed to the table; his rich dark presence coming so close, still further impressed Sir Perseus with an unaccountable feeling of mistrust.