“By to-night,” continued Delia, “all London will know that you plan to massacre the Macdonalds of Glencoe.”
The Master of Stair swung round.
“It shall also be known,” said Delia, with a terrible composure, “that the Macdonalds took the oath and that you and your allies suppress the knowledge that you may not be cheated of your bloody scheme.”
The Master of Stair flushed darkly and put his hands to his black velvet cravat as if he would have torn it in rage.
“Who told you that?” he exclaimed fiercely.
“Does it matter?” she answered. “I know, and all England shall know. And you will not dare to touch them—not even you.”
“Who told you,” he repeated thickly. “What spies have I about my affairs? Who told you?”
Delia laid her hand on the door.
“You can arrest us all,” she said quietly. “You can go to the furthest limits of your law, use your foully-won triumph, but you cannot prevent this truth from circling London.”
“Is this charity toward those savages or—revenge?” he demanded hotly. “Pity for them or hate of me?”