“Pamphlets—lampoons—” was the answer.
“Ah—on whom?”
“Naturally—the Williamites.”
“And you circulate them?”
“Successfully—into Kensington, itself.”
“You are daring—and fortunate,” frowned Mr. Wedderburn.
Sir Perseus looked at him with an honest, puzzled face; he could neither understand the man nor his own sense of uneasiness.
“What are these?” asked the other, and crossed to the table; his rich dark presence coming so close, still further impressed Sir Perseus with an unaccountable feeling of mistrust.
“Ah, those are lampoons on the Master of Stair,” he answered. “We find him a fine target.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s eyes flashed; he poured out more wine and drank it slowly.