"I can, my friend," the King answered, with a gesture of kindness. "It was nothing, and it is forgotten. I have long ceased to think of it. But, c'est vrai! I remember when I say I can trust no one else. I do my good Somers an injustice. He is a dry man, however, like myself, and poor company, and does not count for much."
My lord, contending with his feelings, did not answer, and the King who, while speaking, had seated himself in a high-backed chair, in which he looked frailer and more feeble than when on his legs, let a minute elapse before he resumed in a different and brisker tone, "And now tell me what has troubled our good Secretary to-day?"
"The Duke of Berwick, sir, is in London."
To my astonishment, and I have no doubt to the Duke's, the King merely nodded. "Ah!" he said. "Is he in this pretty plot, then?"
"I think not," the Duke answered. "But I should suppose----
"That he is here to take advantage of it," the King said. "Well, he is his uncle's own nephew. I suppose Ferguson sold him--as he has sold every one all his life?"
"Yes, sir. But not, I think, with the intention that I should carry out the bargain."
"Eh?"
"It is a long tale, sir," the Duke said rather wearily. "And having given your Majesty the information----"
"You need not tell the tale? Well, no, for I can guess it!" the King answered. "The old rogue, I suppose, was for ruining you with me if you hid the news; and for damning you with King James if you informed: which latter he did not think likely, but that instead he would have a hold on you."