"I have sworn to You that I do not know," protested my Lord Stour fiercely.
He looked now like a Man at Bay, trapped in a Net which was closing in around him and from which he was striving desperately to escape. His face was flushed, his eyes glowed with an unnatural fire. And always his restless gaze came back to Mr. Betterton, who stood by, calm and impassive, apparently disinterested in this Colloquy wherein a man's Honour was being tossed about to the Winds of Slander and of Infamy. Now Lord Stour gazed around him, striving to find one line of genuine Sympathy on the stern Faces which were confronting him.
"My word of Honour, Gentlemen," he exclaimed with passionate Earnestness, "that I do not know."
Honestly, I think that one or two of them did feel for him and were inclined to give him Credence. After all, these young Fops are not wicked; they are only mischievous, as Children or young Puppies are wont to be, ready to snarl at one another, to yap and to tear to pieces anything that happens to come in their way. Moreover, there was the great bond of Caste between these People. They were, in their innermost Hearts, loth to believe that one of themselves—a Gentleman, one bearing a great Name—could be guilty of this type of foul Crime which was more easily attributable to a Plebeian. It was only their Love of Scandal-monging and of Backbiting that had kept the Story alive all these weeks. Even now there were one or two sympathetic Murmurs amongst those present when my Lord Stour swore by his Honour.
But just then Mr. Betterton's voice was heard quite distinctly above that Murmur:
"Honour is a strangely difficult word to pronounce on the Stage," he was saying to Sir William Davenant, apparently á propos of something the latter had remarked just before. "You try and say it, Davenant; you will see how it always dislocates your Jaw, yet produces no effect."
"Therefore, Mr. Actor," Lord Stour broke in roughly, "it should only be spoken by those who have a glorious Ancestry behind them to teach them its true Significance."
"Well spoken, my Lord," Mr. Betterton rejoined placidly. "But you must remember that but few of His Majesty's Servants have a line of glorious Ancestry behind them. In that way they differ from many Gentlemen who, having nothing but their Ancestry to boast of, are very like a Turnip—the best of them is under the ground."
This Sally was greeted with loud Laughter, and by a subtle process which I could not possibly define, the wave of Sympathy which was setting in the direction of my Lord Stour, once more receded from him, leaving him wrathful and obstinate, His Grace of Albemarle stern, and the young Fops flippant and long-tongued as before.
"My Lord Stour," the General now broke in once more firmly, "'tis You sought this Explanation, not I. Now You have left my Question unanswered. Your Friends entrusted their Manifestos to You. How came one of these in Lady Castlemaine's hands?"