He inclined his head gravely toward Caryl, who bowed slightly, not knowing what to do, for a strange bewilderment that possessed him, and without another word on either side they parted.
The King looked after him with a contained face, then gave a glance of distaste at his pile of unopened letters and pushed his chair back so that his head rested against the wall; the room was full of pleasant warm shadows that flickered up and down the shining polished walls; the candlesticks and the fireirons winked and glittered and the views from the two windows showed like two pictures in cold grays and blues in great contrast to the warm light within.
The palace clock struck half past-five. William drew out his watch, a sapphire in the back glittered as he moved it; it was correct; he put it back in his pocket.
The door was opened noiselessly by the usher and Sir John Dalrymple entered with the ease of a man familiar and welcomed. William, still with his fingers in his watch chain, spoke without moving.
“I ’ave seen your Jacobite, Sir John.”
“I was surprised, sir, to meet him leaving Kensington a free man.”
The Master of Stair crossed to the hearth and stood there; his face was set and his manner troubled.
“Your Majesty has received the evidence of this plot from my father?” he said.
“And I ’ave destroye’ it, Sir John,” answered William. “This man jus’ now, ’e burnt it.”
“Burnt it!” echoed the Master. “Did your Majesty read it?”