“It is mine,” replied Jerome coldly. “It was stolen from me by one of your Highness’ ministers.”
The King looked at him steadily.
“Yes, it is so,” he said. “You ’ave been outwit’. Mon Dieu! sometime it is to be expect’! Sir John ’ave not a ’ead for plot—but you—you ’ave behave’—like the fools.”
With the same perfect composure and unmoved face, he opened the case and took out the papers. Jerome noticed that the seals were not yet broken.
“We are prepared to pay for being fools, your Highness,” he said coldly.
“It is to be hope’,” remarked William dryly. “You can all do that—you foreigners—when you ’ave play’ the fool you can pay for it.”
His eyes flashed for a moment to Jerome Caryl’s steady presence, then fell to the letter he held.
“This,” he said, “is a letter for my uncle at St. Germains. I believe ’e get many such—pourquoi non?”
He took up the next paper, then put it down and laid his small, high-bred hand over it; the upper part of his face was hidden in the shadow of his hat, but Jerome fancied he detected a faint smile on the thin lips, and it fired his blood.
“Sir,” he demanded, “may I ask what you want of me? Where this leads? I deny nothing.”