ound of visits," he temporized. "Your Grace
has taken us so by surprise. I... I was with Sir Walter Young at Colyton
when the news of your landing came some few hours ago." His voice
faltered and seemed to die away.

"Well?" cried the Duke. His brows were drawn together. Already he
realized that Battiscomb's tidings were not good, else would he be
hesitating less in uttering them. "Is Sir Walter with you, at least?"

"I grieve to say that he is not."

"Not?" It was Grey who spoke, and he followed the ejaculation by an
oath. "Why not?"

"He is following, no doubt?" suggested Fletcher.

"We may hope, sirs," answered Battiscomb, "that in a few days--when he
shall have seen the zeal of the countryside--he will be cured of his
present luke-warmness." Thus, discreetly, did the man of law break the
bad news he bore.

Monmouth sank back into his chair like one who has lost some of
his strength. "Lukewarmness?" he repeated dully. "Sir Walter Young
lukewarm!"

"Even so, Your Grace--alas!" and Battiscomb sighed audibly.

Ferguson's voice boomed forth again to startle them. "The ox knoweth his
owner," he cried, "the ass his master's crib; but Israel doth not know,
my people doth not consider."

Grey pushed the bottle contemptuously across the table to the parson.
"Drink, man, and get sense, said he, and turned aside to question
Battiscomb touching others of the neighbourhood upon whom they had
depended.

"What of Sir Francis Rolles?" he inquired.

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
Gervas