The Ambassadors were ushered on to the lawn. They advanced with a gravity befitting the occasion, and bowed low to the Marchesa. Roger carried a roll of paper of impressive dimensions. Stillford placed chairs for the Ambassadors and, at a sign from the Marchesa, they seated themselves.
“What is your message?” asked the Marchesa. Suddenly nervousness and fear laid hold of her again; her voice shook a little.
“We don’t know,” answered Stabb. “Give me the document, Roger.”
Roger Wilbraham handed him the scroll.
“We are charged to deliver this to your Excellency’s adviser, and to beg him to read it to you in our presence.” He rose, delivered the scroll into Stillford’s hands, and returned, majestic in his bulk, to his seat.
“You neither of you know what’s in it?” the Marchesa asked.
They shook their heads.
The Marchesa took hold of Norah’s hand and said quietly, “Please read it to us, Mr Stillford. I should like you all to hear.”
“That was also Lord Lynborough’s desire,” said Roger Wilbraham.
Stillford unrolled the paper. It was all in Lynborough’s own hand—written large and with fair flourishes. In mockery of the institution he hated, he had cast it in a form which at all events aimed at being legal; too close scrutiny on that score perhaps it would not abide successfully.