“The Master of Stair!” he said. “I have heard a great deal of the Master of Stair,” he gave a half-smile, “Now what have you to say of him?”
He set his glass down and Sir Perseus marked his strong shapely hand as it lay round the stem.
“Come,” the other insisted in an imperious manner, leaning a little across the table, “let me hear your skill in lampoons.”
“I do not write them—I merely collect the materials.”
“So they are true?”
“God knows, one needs not to invent lies of the Master of Stair.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s azure eyes narrowed into a steady look; he leaned forward, his arms folded on the table; there was a little smile on his curved lips.
“Read this same lampoon to me,” he said. “’Twill pass the time till Mr. Caryl comes—”
Sir Perseus felt as one fumbling in the dark; he could not make this Wedderburn out; awed, spite of uneasiness and fascinated through all his watchful mistrust, he decided that the best thing was to wait; he put his hand over the papers on his breast.
“Why—as you say—it will pass the time,” he answered. “Yet it is foolish doggerel—serving only to sting our enemies.”