The Greatest Historical Novels & Romances of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

bit his lip. “I thank you for the assurance, Mr. MacPhair. Yet that letter was hardly a private affair, and. . . . the knowledge of the loss of it has undoubtedly gone about, and has much damaged my reputation, especially in my regiment.”

      “Well, I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Grant,” responded his host, pulling his shawl about him and crossing his legs. “But you must forgive me if I say that to lose a paper of that nature could hardly be expected to enhance it!”

      At the half-amused, half-hortatory tone Ewen fully expected Hector to flare up. But that young man remained surprisingly controlled, and answered, though with rather pinched lips, “Yet the strange thing is, that I told no one save Mr. Cameron and yourself that I had lost it!”

      Fionnlagh Ruadh turned his dangerous gaze on Mr. Cameron. “I suppose he has satisfied you that he is not the culprit?” he asked, again in that half-humorous tone. To this Hector vouchsafed no reply, and apparently Glenshian did not expect one, for he went on, “But surely, Mr. Grant, if a letter such as you told me of were sent, upon capture, to the English Government, as is natural, you could scarcely expect them to be so tender of your reputation as not to let it be known upon whom it was captured?”

      “Ay, but was it sent to the Government?” demanded Hector.

      Glenshian’s haughty head went back. “And pray how do you expect me to know that?”

      Ewen leant forward. It was the same man; after this prolonged scrutiny he felt sure of it. “That is indeed an idle question, Hector,” he observed. “And Mr. MacPhair has assured you that he had no hand in spreading the knowledge of your misfortune, which assurance no doubt you accept. I think the moment has come for me to ask my question, if he will be good enough to answer it.”

      “I hope yours is less offensive than the last!” rapped out Glenshian.

      “I am afraid it is not very pleasant,” admitted Ardroy, “and I must crave your indulgence for putting it. . . . I should wish to learn how it is, Mr. MacPhair, that you know Mr. Pelham so well as to leave his house in Arlington Street between eleven and twelve at night?”

      Oddly enough, it was Hector, not young Glenshian, who appeared most affected by this shot. “What!” he exclaimed, “do you mean to say that Mr. MacPhair was the man you saw that night?”

      But Mr. MacPhair himself was frowning at his questioner in an angry and puzzled astonishment which seemed genuine enough, “Mr. Pelham, sir?” he said sharply “—whom do you mean? You cannot, I imagine, refer to Mr. Pelham the minister of state?”

      “Yes,” said Ewen unperturbed, “I do—Mr. Henry Pelham, my Lord Newcastle’s brother. And as you leave his house so late at night, I conclude that you must know him very well.”

      Now young Glenshian pushed back his chair, his eyes glittering. “You are crazy as well as infernally insulting, Mr. Cameron of Ardroy! I do not know Mr. Pelham even by sight.”

      “Then why were you coming out of his house that night?” pursued Ardroy. “You were speaking Erse to your servant, who was carrying a link. I happened to be passing, and by its light I saw enough of your face and hair to recognise you. Perhaps you had quite legitimate business with Mr. Pelham, but it would be less disquieting if we knew what it was.”

      The young Chief had jumped to his feet, the shawl sliding to the ground; his expression was sufficiently menacing. Hector, all attention, had sprung up too, and was now at Ewen’s side.

      “Do you imagine,” said Glenshian between his teeth, “that we are in Lochaber, Mr. Cameron, and that you can safely come the bully over me, the two of you? I thought the late Lochiel had tried to civilise his clan; it seems he had not much success! I tell you that I do not know Mr. Pelham, and have never been inside his house—and God damn you to hell,” he added in an access of fury, “how dare you put such a question to me?”

      “Because,” answered Ewen unmoved, “I desire to find out who was the man that came out of Mr. Pelham’s house on the night of the fifteenth of May, a red-haired, Erse-speaking man as like you, Mr. MacPhair, as one pea is like another.”

      “I’d like to know,” broke in Finlay bitterly, “why, if you see a red-headed Highlander coming out of an English minister’s door, you must jump to the conclusion not only that he is a Jacobite playing fast and loose with his principles, but that it is the future chief of Glenshian, a man who has lain near two years in the Tower for Jacobitism? Dhé, if it were not so amazing in its impudence——”

      “You mean that I am to consider myself mistaken?”

      “I do indeed, Mr. Cameron; and before you leave this room you’ll apologise for your assumption in any words I choose to dictate! Faith, I am not sure that an apology, even the humblest, is adequate!”

      And here—if the assumption in question were mistaken—Ewen agreed with him.

      “I am quite ready to apologise, Mr. MacPhair,” he said, “if you’ll prove to me that I was wrong. On my soul, I am only too anxious that you should. Or if you will convince me that your clandestine business with the Elector’s chief minister was such as an honourable man of our party might fairly have.”

      “And who made you a judge over me?” cried Finlay the Red, and his left hand went to his side, gripping at nothing, for he was not wearing his sword. Then he flung out the other in a fiery gesture. “I’ll have that apology, by Heaven! You’ll be only too ready to offer it when you hear my secret!”

      “If you tell me that your errand to Mr. Pelham’s house——” began Ewen.

      “God’s name!” broke out the angry MacPhair, “am I to shout it at you that I never went there! He went, I don’t doubt, and you saw him coming out. I suppose therefore that I should not have been so hot with you just now. You’ll pardon me for that when you hear . . . and perhaps you’ll pardon me if I sit down again. I am still weakly.” Indeed he was palish, and there was moisture on his brow. “Be seated again, gentlemen, and I will tell you both why Mr. Cameron thought he saw me coming out of the minister’s house one night—a night, too, when, if he had inquired, he would have found that I was not in London.”

      The visitors somewhat doubtfully reseated themselves, Hector frowning tensely on their host, but content to leave the weight of the business for the moment on Ardroy’s shoulders, where Mr. MacPhair himself seemed to have put it.

      “The explanation,” said Glenshian, coughing a little, and picking up his shawl, “is—that I have, to my sorrow, a double.”

      “A double!” exclaimed Ewen, raising his eyebrows. “Do you mean a man who resembles you?”

      “Ay, a man who so resembles me that even my close acquaintance have been deceived. He dogs my path, Mr. Cameron, and I get the credit of his ill-deeds. He can even imitate my hand of write.”

      “But who—who is he?”

      Young Glenshian shrugged his shoulders. “Some by-blow of my father’s, I must believe. And that, no doubt (since I never heard of the Chief’s recognising him nor doing aught for him), has led him to take this method of revenge, by bringing discredit, when he can, upon my good name. ’Tis not, as you may guess, a pleasant secret for a man of honour to unveil, and I must be glad that I am dealing with gentlemen.”

      “You hardly called us that a while ago,” retorted Ewen, knitting his brows. Had he been mistaken that night, in the quick, passing glare of the torch? If he had been, then he was wronging young Glenshian even more deeply than young Glenshian had wronged Archie.

      Hector’s voice, silent for some time, broke in. “Is it not possible, Mr. MacPhair,” it said, “that this discreditable double of yours counts for something in my affair?”

      “And how could that be?” asked Finlay with a shade of contempt. “I hold no communication with him; he has not access to my papers.”

      “Your papers!” said Hector