“Ah, those are lampoons on the Master of Stair,” he answered. “We find him a fine target.” Mr. Wedderburn’s eyes flashed; he poured out more wine and drank it slowly. “The Master of Stair!” he said. “I have heard a great deal of the Master of Stair,” he gave a half-smile, “Now what have you to say of him?” He set his glass down and Sir Perseus marked his strong shapely hand as it lay round the stem. “Come,” the other insisted in an imperious manner, leaning a little across the table, “let me hear your skill in lampoons.” “I do not write them—I merely collect the materials.” “So they are true?” “God knows, one needs not to invent lies of the Master of Stair.” Mr. Wedderburn’s azure eyes narrowed into a steady look; he leaned forward, his arms folded on the table; there was a little smile on his curved lips. “Read this same lampoon to me,” he said. “’Twill pass the time till Mr. Caryl comes—” Sir Perseus felt as one fumbling in the dark; he could not make this Wedderburn out; awed, spite of uneasiness and fascinated through all his watchful mistrust, he decided that the best thing was to wait; he put his hand over the papers on his breast. “Why—as you say—it will pass the time,” he answered. “Yet it is foolish doggerel—serving only to sting our enemies.” “And the truth, you say?” “Else it would not sting.” And Sir Perseus picked up the topmost printed sheet and unfolded it; Mr. Wedderburn fixed upon him his brilliant eyes. Sir Perseus glanced at the clock, then commenced reading in his pleasant, even voice: _Of all these men who make the laws, That they may easy break the laws, I know no knaves I could compare With the brood begot by the Viscount Stair._ “A bold beginning,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn. Sir Perseus continued: _Of all this race by Heaven cursed, John, is the eldest and the worst, A specious knave, whose end will be A-dancing on the gallows-tree._ He paused, thinking he heard a footstep. “Go on,” smiled Mr. Wedderburn. _There is no deed he would not do Or readily put his hand thereto So he might gain this world’s gear, Scruples knows he not nor fear. Born was he of a witch from Hell, And Satan knew his father well, A hideous curse is on his name, Deep has he drunk of every shame—_ Sir Perseus interrupted himself: “Hardly very witty,” he remarked, “but it impresses the people it goes among.” “Go on,” was the brief rejoinder. Sir Perseus caught at the means of filling time that dragged.