“For honest motives, perchance,” said Mr. Wedderburn.
“I do not say so—God knows. Carstairs I believe is honest—the Master of Stair is not full of scruples. I think he is faithful because he hates us bitterly and because he is a man of one view—he is sworn to the Whigs and would, I think, sell his soul for them—if it is still on the market.”
“You hate him,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn.
“I do—he constantly thwarts me, he is a man to be feared—but to business, Mr. Wedderburn: these papers you are to carry to France are with his grace of Berwick—give me two days and I shall have them.”
Mr. Wedderburn rose:
“I will call again the day after to-morrow, then,” he said, “and start immediately afterwards for France.”
He put his commission back into his pocket.
“You will not disappoint me?” he asked. “In two days—”
“I will answer for it, you have them then,” said Jerome Caryl, “where are you staying?”
“I am undecided, but any message addressed to ‘The Blue Posts,’ Covent Garden, will find me.”