Jerome Caryl laid his hand on the Duke’s arm. “Sir,” he said coldly in a low tone, “you are aware that our enterprise is done—damned? These papers on which we staked everything are gone—we shall not rouse France without them.”
Berwick winked.
“We’ll manage without France,” he said and smiled round the table.
“Your grace knows that is impossible—and we are watched—Sir John Dalrymple knows much—it will be impossible to mature fresh schemes—to obtain those signatures again.”
“La! we don’t want ’em,” cried Berwick. “We have a scheme of our own—suggested by Mr. Porter—” he nodded toward one of the company, “it don’t want any help of the Frenchies or the Whigs—la! it’s mighty clever!”
“Well, my lord,” said Mr. Porter from the other end of the table, “it is quick—and effectual.”
And he laughed across at Celia Hunt.
“I do not understand,” said Jerome Caryl.
“There now!” giggled Berwick. “Caryl don’t understand—sink me if I did at first when they started with their hints—certainly, I didn’t!”
He made a lazy gesture over his shoulder. “Come here, my lady and help us explain.”