Battiscomb answered the question, addressing himself to the Duke.
“Alas! Sir Francis, no doubt, would have been faithful to Your Grace, but, unfortunately, Sir Francis is in prison already.”
Deeper grew Monmouth's frown; his fingers drummed the table absently. Fletcher poured himself wine, his face inscrutable. Grey threw one leg over the other and in a voice that was carefully careless he inquired, “And what of Sidney Clifford?”
“He is considering,” said Battiscomb. “I was to have seen him again at the end of the month; meanwhile, he would take no resolve.”
“Lord Gervase Scoresby?” questioned Grey, less carelessly.
Battiscomb half turned to him, then faced the Duke again as he made answer, “Mr. Wilding there, can tell you more concerning Lord Gervase.”
All eyes swept round to Wilding who sat in silence, listening; Monmouth's were laden with inquiry and some anxiety. Wilding shook his head slowly, sadly. “You must not depend upon him,” he answered; “Lord Gervase was not yet ripe. A little longer and I think I must have won him for Your Grace.”
“Heaven help us!” exclaimed the Duke in petulant vexation. “Is no one coming in?”
Ferguson swung a hand towards the still open window, drawing attention to the sounds without.
“Does Your Grace not hear, that ye can ask?” he cried, almost reproachfully; but they scarce heeded him, for Grey was inquiring if Mr. Strode might be depended upon to join, and that was a matter that claimed the greater attention.