The Master of Stair flung the last papers onto the fire, then crossed to his prostrate enemy.
“I might have kept you for Tyburn—where your friends will go,” he said, looking down at him with the candle in his hand. “The friends whose names you have in that paper—”
He dropped to one knee and turned Sir Perseus over; at this the Jacobite moaned and clutched his fingers together.
Sir John smiled as he drew the leathern case from the blood-stained shirt.
“I have your plot in the hollow of my hand,” said the Master of Stair, and flashed the candle into the ashy face of Sir Perseus, who stared up speechlessly.
“You!” he said, still at the white heat of his fury, “you would sell us to the French! You would utter foul lies of me and mine! My God, Jacobite, I would you might live to be hanged!”
He crossed to the table and opened the case; it contained the three papers untouched; with flashing eyes he examined them; then called over his shoulder to the shadowy window-seat.
“Do you see me, Jacobite dog?”
From the shadow came a faint voice, a little cry.
“Delia!”