hat you deny the charge?"

"I have heard none as yet," said Sir Rowland insolently.

Albemarle turned to one of the secretaries. "Read them the indictment,"
said he, and sank back in his chair, his dull glance upon the prisoners,
whilst the clerk in a droning voice read from a document which he took
up. It impeached Sir Rowland Blake and Mr. Richard Westmacott of holding
treasonable communication with James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, and of
plotting against His Majesty's life and throne and the peace of His
Majesty's realms.

Blake listened with unconcealed impatience to the farrago of legal
phrases, and snorted contemptuously when the reading came to an end.

Albemarle looked at him darkly. "I do thank God," said he, "that through
Mr. Westmacott's folly has this hideous plot, this black and damnable
treason, been brought to light in time to enable us to stamp out this
fire ere it is well kindled. Have you aught to say, sir?"

"I have to say that the whole charge a foul and unfounded lie," said Sir
Rowland bluntly: "I never plotted in my life against anything but my own
prosperity, nor against any man but myself."

Albemarle smiled coldly at his colleagues, then turned to Westmacott.
"And you, sir?" he said. "Are you as stubborn as your friend?"

"I incontinently deny the charge," said Richard, and he contrived that
his voice should ring bold and resolute.

"A charge built on air," sneered Blake, "which the first breath of truth
should utterly dispel. We have heard the impeachment. Will Your Grace
with the same consideration permit us to see the proofs that we may lay
bare their falseness? It should not be difficult."

"Do you say there is no such plot as is here alleged?" quoth the Duke,
and smote a paper sharply.

Blake shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know?" he asked. "I say I
have no share in any, that I am acquainted with none."

"Call Mr. Trenchard," said the Duke quietly, and an usher who had stood
tamely by the door at the far end of the room departed on the errand.

Richard started at the mention of that name. He had a singular dread of
Mr. Trenchard.

Colonel Luttrell--lean and wiry--now addressed the prisoners, Blake more
particularly. "Still," said he, "you will admit that such a plot may,
indeed, exist?"

"It may, indeed, for aught I know--or care," he added incautiously.

Albemarle smote the table with a heavy hand. "By God!" he cried in that
deep booming voice of his, "there spoke a tr