One more treasonable interview had he with Lord Ostermore in the library ere he departed. His lordship it was who reopened again the question, to repeat much of what he had said in the arbor on the previous day, and Mr. Caryll replied with much the same arguments in favor of procrastination that he had already employed.
“Wait, at least,” he begged, “until I have been abroad a day or two, and felt for myself how the wind Is setting.”
“'Tis a prodigiously dangerous document,” he declared. “I scarce see the need for so much detail.”
“How can it set but one way?”
“'Tis a question I shall be in better case to answer when I have had an opportunity of judging. Meanwhile, be assured I shall not sail for France without advising you. Time enough then to give me your letter should you still be of the same mind.”
“Be it so,” said the earl. “When all is said, the letter will be safer here, meantime, than in your pocket.” And he tapped the secretaire. “But see what I have writ his majesty, and tell me should I alter aught.”
He took out a drawer on the right—took it out bodily—then introduced his hand into the opening, running it along the inner side of the desk until, no doubt, he touched a spring; for suddenly a small trap was opened. From this cavity he fished out two documents—one the flimsy tissue on which King James' later was penned; the other on heavier material Lord Ostermore's reply. He spread the latter before him, and handed it to Mr. Caryll, who ran an eye over it.
It was indited with stupid, characteristic incaution; concealment was never once resorted to; everywhere expressions of the frankest were employed, and every line breathed the full measure of his lordship's treason and betrays the existence of a plot.
Mr. Caryll returned it. His countenance was grave.
“I desire his majesty to know how whole-heartedly I belong to him.”