The November evening was closing in; the room somber and gloomy at any time, was in darkness save for the fire over which a young man sat, writing on a paper that he held on his knee. The firelight showed a resolute brown face, close-clipped brown hair and a large figure very plainly clad in a neat, dark cloth suit.
The scanty furniture consisted of a bureau, a few chairs, and a small table piled with papers.
“He is late, Perseus,” said the girl in a tired voice. “It struck four some time since.”
Both her accent and her face marked her as English; when the man glanced up it was easy to see he was her brother.
“He will come,” he said quietly. “Why not?” And he fell to his busy writing again.
“Why not?” echoed the girl impatiently. “I think, Perseus, there are many reasons why a gentleman in King James’s service may not cross England and Scotland in perfect safety.”
“I have perfect confidence in Jerome Caryl,” answered her brother, this time without an upward look. “A man who has been an adventurer all his life knows how to play the spy.”
She let the curtain fall.
“I wish you would not use that word, Perseus,” she said vexedly.
With a half-humorous sigh Sir Perseus Featherstonehaugh put aside the writing he could no longer see.