ndertaking."

Mr. Caryll nodded. "Because, as I have told you," said he, "King James
in Rome has received positive information that in London the plot is
already suspected, little though Atterbury may dream it. But what has
this to do with my Lord Ostermore?"

"This," said Everard slowly, leaning across toward Justin, and laying
a hand upon his sleeve. "I am to counsel the Bishop to stay his hand
against a more favorable opportunity. There is no reason why you should
not do the very opposite with Ostermore."

Mr. Caryll knit his brows, his eyes intent upon the other's face; but he
said no word.

"It is," urged Everard, "an opportunity such as there may never be
another. We destroy Ostermore. By a turn of the hand we bring him to the
gallows." He chuckled over the word with a joy almost diabolical.

"But how--how do we destroy him?" quoth Justin, who suspected yet dared
not encourage his suspicions.

"How? Do you ask how? Is't not plain?" snapped Sir Richard, and what
he avoided putting into words, his eloquent glance made clear to his
companion.

Mr. Caryll rose a thought quickly, a faint flush stirring in his cheeks,
and he threw off Everard's grasp with a gesture that was almost of
repugnance. "You mean that I am to enmesh him...."

Sir Richard smiled grimly. "As his majesty's accredited agent," he
explained. "I will equip you with papers. Word shall go ahead of you to
Ostermore by a safe hand to bid him look for the coming of a messenger
bearing his own family name. No more than that; nothing that can
betray us; yet enough to whet his lordship's appetite. You shall be
the ambassador to bear him the tempting offers from the king. You will
obtain his answers--accepting. Those you will deliver to me, and I shall
do the trifle that may still be needed to set the rope about his neck."

A little while there was silence. Outside, the rain, driven by gusts,
smote the window as with a scourge. The thunder was grumbling in the
distance now. Mr. Caryll resumed his chair. He sat very thoughtful,
but with no emotion showing in his face. British stolidity was in the
ascendant with him then. He felt that he had the need of it.

"It is... ugly," he said at last slowly.

"It is God's own will," was the hot answer, and Sir Richard smote the
table.

"Has God taken you into His confidence?" wondered Mr. Caryll.

"I know that God is justice."

"Yet is it not written that 'vengeance is His own'?"

"Aye, but He needs hum