“That I do not as yet know,” said his lordship. “I make no plans until I see what I have to combat.”
“You realise there’s like to be a fight, sir?”
“Most fully. There are maybe some few will know me from foreign days. Those I do not fear. They are less than nothing.”
“And,” interrupted his son, “there may be also some few will know you from Scottish days. What of them?”
“They too are less than nothing,” said my lord. “Who would dare to seek to expose me?” He laid stress on the last word; it seemed fitting. “What man knows me among the Jacobites whom I do not know? Not one! I have some papers in my possession make me dangerous beyond the power of imagination.”
“Jacobite papers?” said Robin sharply. “Then burn them, sir! You are not, after all, Mr Murray of Broughton.”
My lord drew himself up. “You suspect me of infamy? You think that Tremaine of Barham turns informer? You insult me! You, my son!”
“Egad, sir, let us have done with heroics. I’m to suppose you keep your papers for some purpose.”
“You may consider them as a Sword of Damocles in case of necessity,” said my lord. “There is only one thing that I fear. One little, significant scrap of paper. I shall overcome the obstacle.”
“Paper? You’ve set your name to something? Where is it?” demanded Robin.