"Ah—eh—I—I—In truth," returned Lilly, stammering, "the king, who is so liberal with his lady friends, is—what shall I say?—close with me, save in promises. He buys folly at the rate of hundreds of thousands of pounds a year, while he pays for knowledge with large promises, and now ten shillings and again five. On one occasion I assured him that he would not fail if he attempted to put through a much-cherished plan of carrying a lady to the country against her will. He was much pleased and gave me a guinea, but borrowed it a week afterward, and—and still owes it."
George turned quickly to me, but, remembering that he was the Abbé du Boise, said nothing. But I caught his meaning and, turning to Lilly, asked:—
"Do you refer to the occasion of a certain kidnapping in which Hamilton and I consulted you?"
"Yes," returned Lilly.
"And you allowed it to be carried out without telling us?" I asked indignantly.
"I did not know who the lady was till you came to me for help," he answered.
"And you were able to put us on the right track to find her because of knowledge gained from the stars?" I asked, with a sharp note of sarcasm.
"No, no," he replied coolly. "Why trouble the stars for information that may be had as easily and more definitely elsewhere?"
"Then why did you not tell us the true source of your knowledge?" I asked warmly.
"Because I had neither right nor desire to betray the person most actively engaged in the affair. To have done so might have cost me my life. I gave you the information you asked, and you saved the lady through my help, without which you would not have known where to turn. You would have been helpless. You paid me ten guineas. Were my services worth the fee?"