“Weel—they say Carstairs, Shrewsbury and the Master of Stair—but I’m thinking that’s merely because they are more cunning than most.”
The Countess laughed. At the same moment there was a tap on the door and as she looked up a servant entered.
“Captain Campbell of Glenlyon to see your ladyship.”
“He is frae Kilchurn?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Bid him come in,” she said, and as the door closed again she looked at her cousin.
“What has happened that Jock sends to me?”
Argyll trifled with his teaspoon in silence and looked at her with a lazy half-sneer, for she had risen with a changed face, and that any one should be troubled lest anything should happen to Breadalbane was to his cousin a most amusing thing.
Captain Campbell of Glenlyon entered and stood a moment abashed by the light, glowing room, the elegant lady all purple and gold; his master usually employed him on rougher work than carrying messages to his wife.
“My lord is weel?” asked the Countess swiftly.