The secret agent, M. Gabriel Sylvius, was a tall, lean man, with a shrewd and lined countenance, hair of a harsh reddish colour, and a freckled skin.
He looked keenly at the Prince. He had been in his father’s service and greatly loved the House of Orange.
“I am sorry to see Your Highness look so ill,” he said bluntly.
“No matter for that,” answered William impatiently. “What of England?”
The envoy answered with a touch of satisfaction—
“I think that I can claim some amount of success.”
“In what way?”
The Prince’s tranquil mien could hardly disguise his eagerness.
Sir Gabriel began as concise an account of his sojourn in London as he could manage.
“Sit down,” said William when he came to a pause.