Breadalbane watched him curiously.
“Ye are ower easy, Lord Stair. Ye ken the ugly things the inquiry will reveal? How they took the oath and it was suppressed—for your ain purpose.”
Lord Stair flicked a torn petal from his white sleeve.
“I had authority to suppress what I choose, my lord,” he answered indifferently. “The oath was invalid—as it came in too late, and so I treated it. Besides, have you forgotten that I had the King’s warrant?”
A faint smile touched Breadalbane’s thin lips.
“Will the King stand by ye?” he asked. “Will he no’ say that he didna’ ken what he signed?”
Lord Stair sat silent. Breadalbane’s keen insight had brought him to the truth. Stair thought of that day at Kensington when William had signed the order without reading it, and for the first time a vague uneasiness touched him; he turned at last, half-angrily.
“Why this anxiety on my behalf, my lord?” he demanded. “You had a share in this business, yet you are safe—thanks to your prudence.”
The pavan was over. Lord Stair watched his wife till she had gone out of sight with her partner; he had pulled the rose away to the heart and absently he played with the pile of petals on the table beside him.
“Mae mon’s prudence,” remarked Breadalbane a little bitterly, “can take account of such a mischance as this—some one hae been working in the dark—some black steady malice hae been accomplishing this.”