The lady came forward to the table; as the light fell over her face Jerome Caryl gave a little start; he recognized her as the Countess of Breadalbane.
She appeared composed, but there was no color in her face; she addressed Berwick, utterly ignoring the rest.
“Ye ken vera weel, sir,” she said in a rapid whisper, “that I and my cousin are here for the ane purpose of getting back from ye the dutiful letters my lord and my cousin indited to be sent to King James—which—seeing the plot is ruined—are better, ye ken, in the fire.”
“I don’t know where they are,” smiled Berwick vacantly. “I enclosed ’em in my letter to my father—la! I don’t know!”
Lady Breadalbane looked as if she could have shaken him with pleasure; the even voice of Jerome Caryl broke in:
“I have already told his grace that his grace’s letters to France were burnt with the rest at Kensington by the Prince.”
The Countess’s green eyes flashed to the speaker’s face; she gave him a long look and flushed.
Berwick’s foolish laugh rose in the pause. “That ain’t all you came for, my lady,” he said. “You know Breadalbane has promised his aid—”
“Ah, hush,” she said with a look at Caryl. “Ye ken that Jock is in the Hielands and that is why I came to regain the paper—which—since it is burnt—we will be taking our leave.”
Berwick stared.