Harcourt pushed the decanter towards him.
“Fill up your glass, Chris, and tell me all that you have been doing since I saw you!”
Christopher obeyed the first behest.
“I don’t think I have done anything,” he said. “My life is quite uneventful. You will have more to tell me.”
“Oh, I … ! No, I do my work, and for the rest there’s naught. Come! Tell me about yourself!”
Christopher laughed.
“I do my work, and go out a little, and for the rest—”
“There’s something! Were you in Roxhythe’s service when you went to Holland? Or was that before you joined him?”
Christopher tilted his glass so that the red wine caught the light, and sparkled.
“I was in his service,” he answered.
“Strange! I had thought my lord would not have been absent from Whitehall for so long.”
“If you cast your mind back,” said Christopher, slowly, “you will remember that there was a slight difference—between His Majesty and my master. Roxhythe found it expedient to go abroad for a while.”
“I do remember something of the sort,” frowned Harcourt. “I remember London was a-hum with the news.”
“Yes?” said Christopher. “Well, that was why he went away.”
“To Holland. … Lord Roxhythe usually goes to Paris!” said Harcourt, smiling.
“He has many friends in Holland whom he wished to visit,” replied Christopher.
Harcourt drew him on to the subject of the Prince of Orange. He wanted to know if Christopher had ever seen him. In fact, there was much that he wanted to know. He insisted that Christopher should tell him of his life with Roxhythe. At the end of the recital he regarded Christopher rather strangely for a moment. Then he smiled.
“It seems you are very fortunate,” he said. “I’d give much to be in your shoes!”
Christopher felt that this was not true.
“You would find my master a change from Lord Russell!” he said. “I do not think you would like my life.”
“Perhaps not. By the way, I saw Lord Roxhythe at the play the other night. What a comely man he is!”
Christopher warmed.
“He is very handsome,” he agreed. “And he is more than that. He is very great.”
“Indeed, yes. He has much power.”
“I did not mean power. I mean he has a great nature.”
Harcourt pushed his chair back from the table, so that his face was slightly in the shadow.
“Ah? I had not thought he had much depth of character, I confess. …”
“You don’t know him!” said Christopher quickly. “He is brave and upright, and clev—” He stopped.
“Clever?” ended Harcourt, smoothly. “He does not show it.”
Christopher recovered himself.
“Well—no!” he laughed. “Perhaps he is not clever! I am carried away by my love for him. No, he is brave and honourable. I have never known him perform a mean act. But I do not think he is clever.”
“He hath a very lively wit, if all I hear be true.”
“A ready tongue,” said Christopher. “He is very indolent.”
“Yes.” Harcourt peeled a nut abstractedly. “I suppose it is for that reason that he doth not meddle in intrigue.”
“He has no taste for plotting,” replied Christopher, in all good faith. “Indeed he laughs at intrigue.”
“Very wise,” said Harcourt, still busy with his nut. “And what does he tonight?”
“I do not know,” answered Christopher. “He is away from home.”
The shrewd eyes looked up for a moment and fell once more.
“Again?” asked Harcourt. “I fear your master is of a very gay disposition, Chris! Paris, I suppose?”
Christopher sipped his wine.
“Yes, Paris. I believe he has met a very fair lady whom he adores for the moment. It is his way.”
“Oh! In the household of Madame, eh? We hear tales of it even in this quiet house. Some say it is Madame herself.”
“Maybe.” Christopher was not interested. He had had enough of the subject. Evidently Harcourt had not.
“She must be very fascinating, whoe’er she be,” he remarked. “My lord has been to France so much during the past year. We thought it impossible that it should be for a woman and naught else. He must have business there, surely?”
Christopher’s brows drew perceptively nearer.
“No, he has not. It is nothing for my lord to go often to Paris! You take a great interest in his affairs!”
Harcourt ate his nut.
“Forgive my impertinence! I am interested in all that concerns you, Chris. Let us talk of something else!”
Christopher went home, thinking hard. Unperceptive he might be, but he was wise enough to see that Harcourt had been more than casually curious about his affairs. He went over the evening in his mind. First the questions concerning the journey to Holland; then the questions concerning my lord’s French journeys. Christopher remembered that Lady Frances had talked to him on that subject. She had wanted to know what it was that drew my lord to Paris. Well, he had not known. He still did not know. He guessed that it was some woman for it was always that. He had not puzzled over the matter at all. It was not unusual for Roxhythe to journey to Paris; no one, save Lady Frances and Harcourt, had thought it unusual. Why should these two strive to draw explanations from him? What did they suspect? Why did they suspect? He resolved to speak to Roxhythe himself. If he had aught to confide, surely my lord would tell it to him?
Christopher went into the library and lighted candles. He found an invitation from Lady Frances to wait on her one day. She chided him for what she termed his neglect. She believed he had tired of her already!
It was a letter such as his mother might have written. Christopher folded it carefully and put it away.
Next day he went to her house, and was admitted into my lady’s private parlour. It was a tastefully furnished room, hung in blue and gold to suit my lady’s colouring. It looked
