Mr. Wedderburn’s intense eyes never lost their steadiness; he spoke in the same suppressed voice: “I have never heard anything against the fair name of Lady Dalrymple,” he said. Sir Perseus, angered and bewildered, gave a short laugh. “You’ve lived too long in France, sir, or you would know that Sir John Dalrymple’s wife is no better than the rest of his family—and that Tom Wharton—” Mr. Wedderburn rose so abruptly that Sir Perseus sprang also to his feet, like a man suddenly seeing danger. “What of Mr. Wharton?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn softly. “What are these demands?” cried Sir Perseus hotly. “Why are you championing the Whigs?” “No matter for that,” interrupted the other. “I ask you—what of Mr. Wharton?” Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders. “Sir, you want it put too plainly—what of my Lady Sunderland and Mr. Sidney belike, you’ve heard that tale—even in France? And the part the Earl takes—a common situation among these canting Whigs.” Mr. Wedderburn came a step nearer. “Do you couple that woman’s name with that of Lady Dalrymple,” he said unsteadily. “Even in your foul libels?” Sir Perseus flushed angrily. “What brief have you in this cause? Lady Dalrymple cannot shrink from the Countess’s company. As I said, the situation is the same—Tom Wharton is as worthless a rake as Harry Sidney—and as fortunate a lover,—while Sir John is as complacent a husband as the Earl—” Mr. Wedderburn leaned forward and struck the speaker on the breast with his clenched hand so fiercely that he staggered and almost fell, struck him with such fury and unrestrained passion that he gave a cry, thinking a madman attacked him, struck him with his hand and then with his crumpled glove full on his wincing face. “You bring your lies to the wrong market, you Papist cur!” he said hoarsely. “I am John Dalrymple and I stand here to refute your cursed slanders!” He flung aside his gloves and cloak and his sword sprang out in the candle-light. “My God!” whispered Sir Perseus, reeling against the wall with a sick face. The Master of Stair came toward him; his bared sword glittering as it shook to the quick breathing of his fury. “You!” he said with mad eyes, dark and narrow. “You—the Frenchman’s spy—the priest’s tool—the mouthpiece of the scandals of the gutter—you, to drag my name through the mire to make a party cry!” Sir Perseus drew himself together desperately. “John Dalrymple!” he cried. “You have betrayed yourself too soon—by God you have!” “No,” said the Master of Stair, advancing on him. “Think you I need to use craft—to get those papers from you?” “Not while I live,” answered Sir Perseus firmly, and he made a step toward the door. But the Master of Stair stood before it. “Will you cry for help?” he demanded. “It will make no difference. The poor knaves here cannot aid you—” Sir Perseus stepped impulsively back and drew. “I think you threw—spy at me,” he said through his teeth. “What word then for you—you thief of men’s confidence?”