“I observe that the gentleman has lately been powdering his hair,” said the boy whom they called Nick.
Mr. Lovel was wroth. He started upon the usual drunkard's protestations, but was harshly cut short by Talbot.
“You ask me my warrant 'Tis the commission of his Majesty King James in whose army I have the honour to hold a command.”
He read on, nodding now and then, pursing his mouth at a word, once copying something on to his own tablets. Suddenly he raised his head.
“When did his Grace dismiss you?” he asked.
Now Ormonde had been the Duke last spoken of, but Mr. Lovel's precarious wits fell into the trap. He denied indignantly that he had fallen from his master's favour.
A grim smile played round Talbot's mouth.
“You have confessed,” he said. Then to the others: “This fellow is one of Malbrouck's pack. He has been nosing in the Scotch westlands. Here are the numbers of Kenmure and Nithsdale to enable the great Duke to make up his halting mind. See, he has been with Roxburghe too.... We have a spy before us, gentlemen, delivered to our hands by a happy incident. Whig among the sectaries and with Stair and Roxburghe, and Jacobite among our poor honest folk, and wheedling the secrets out of both sides to sell to one who disposes of them at a profit in higher quarters. Faug! I know the vermin. An honest Whig like John Argyll I can respect and fight, but for such rats as this—What shall we do with it now that we have trapped it?”
“Let it go,” said the boy, Nick Wogan. “The land crawls with them and we cannot go rat-hunting when we are aiming at a throne.” He picked up Lovel's ring and spun it on a finger tip. “The gentleman has found more than news in the north. He has acquired a solid lump of gold.”
The implication roused Mr. Lovel out of his embarrassment. “I wear the ring by right. I had it from my father.” His voice was tearful with offended pride