‘He is ever chary of putting hand to paper. I know of one band, never signed by him. He wrote a letter, by which all thought——But it purported nothing. However, that is happily past.’
‘He signed away Davy,’ says Bothwell very calmly.
The Secretary turned quickly. ‘No, my lord, no! Upon my oath he never did. Nothing would make him.’
Bothwell considered his twitching brows. ‘He signed the letter which you now have, Lethington. By that you hold him, cunning rogue though he be. Now, take me this way. If he signs not to me before the Council, to the effect that what I sign there he signs also, I move no further.’
‘Your lordship will be wise. But——Oh, his fingers are stiff at the pen!’
‘Master Cecil in England can make them supple,’ says Bothwell, ‘working at them through the palm. And so can you, my friend, if I make you.’
Mr. Secretary closed his eyes.
‘You hold his letter,’ Bothwell went on, ‘wherein he implicates himself in Davy’s killing. Now, if I go to him with the news?’
‘Ha, my lord! But he knows very well that I have it.’