“Oh! May I have the dispatch—for Monmouth?”
Christopher gave it to him. He felt relieved that it was out of his hands at last.
“I am to bear an answer to His Majesty, sir, as proof that I have delivered the packet.”
“You shall have it. Excuse me for one moment!” He pocketed both documents and hurried out.
Christopher picked up the King’s ring and put it on his finger. He felt an odd thrill at wearing it.
An elegant, much-beribboned gentleman passed the window and looked in curiously. With him was another still more elegant gentleman. He too stared in. Then he shrugged, and they passed on. Christopher heard him say something in French.
Presently Cherrywood returned. He gave Christopher a sealed packet.
“There is mine answer. You have the ring?”
Christopher held up his hand.
“That is well. Now, is there aught else you want of me?”
“No,” said Christopher. “But there is something that I would like to tell you.”
Cherrywood sat down.
“Ah! Well?”
“I met a certain Milward today in the town. I know him to be in Barillon’s pay. For reasons which we need not discuss he mistrusts me, thinking me an intriguer. I wish to warn you that he may suspect.”
“Milward? Milward? Oh, ay, ay! Thank you Mr. Dart, that will be very well.”
“He is a spy,” warned Christopher.
“I shall be careful, I assure you. Is that all?”
Christopher rose.
“That is all. What a quantity of Frenchmen you have in the town!”
Cherrywood followed him to the door.
“Yes. Well, we are not at war. We suffer all parties to visit us.”
“I have seen hardly any Dutchmen.”
“Oh, we have a few! Most Dutchmen are fighting, you understand.”
“I see,” said Christopher. “I am glad that we ceased war on Holland.”
“Certainly. Yes.” Mr. Cherrywood bowed him out. On the steps they clasped hands for a moment.
“I compliment you, Mr. Dart; I compliment you. You would make a good envoy. Perhaps we shall see you amongst us ere long.”
“I serve Roxhythe,” said Christopher. “I am no intriguer.”
Cherrywood favoured him with another hard stare.
“Oh! You serve Roxhythe. Well, well!”
Christopher was not desirous of meeting Milward again, and he arranged to leave the town early next morning. He was both annoyed and disgusted when his enemy walked into the Setting Sun inn while he was at dinner.
Milward espied him and came to sit at his table.
“A piece of luck!” he commented. “I thought you were staying at the ‘William’?”
“No,” said Christopher. “Are you?”
“Oh dear no! I am at”—he paused. “The Flag of Orange.”
Christopher disbelieved him on the spot.
“We were finely diddled over your master,” continued Milward, presently. “I thought him naught but a court-darling. Dupont knew.”
“Really?” Christopher was studiously polite.
“Oh, indeed yes! Now, of course we know. Since ’70.”
“Why since then?”
“Why? Blister me, you’re a pretty young innocent!”
“I am glad I find favour in your eyes,” bowed Christopher.
“Is it possible that you don’t know? Didn’t you hear?”
“I never listen to gossip,” said Christopher.
Milward shook his head. He took a long drink.
“You puzzle me, you know,” he said.
“I am sorry,” said Christopher, and straightway changed the subject.
He arrived in London six days later. He drove at once to Bevan House where he found the royal coach drawn up in the courtyard. The footman who admitted him said that His Majesty was with my lord. Christopher decided that nothing could have been more opportune. He gave the lackey instructions to pay the coachman, and raced upstairs to his room. He changed his travel-stained garments for his smartest suit, washed his face, and combed out his fair hair. Then he assured himself that Cherrywood’s letter was in his pocket, and walked downstairs as calmly as he could. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes were very bright. He felt himself a man of some account; his patriotism flared high.
Two lackeys stood before the thick curtain that shut off the library. Christopher waved to them to draw it back.
“Sir,” expostulated one. “His Majesty is within, visiting my lord.”
“I am aware of it,” said Christopher.
Reluctantly the man held back the curtain. Christopher walked in.
The King was seated with Roxhythe by the window. My lord’s lazy voice was the first thing that Christopher heard. Then Charles burst into a great laugh.
“David, you rogue!” His eyes, wandering round the room, alighted on Christopher, who bowed. The laugh died on his lips, and a look of surprise came into his face.
“Cordieu! ’Tis our young friend!”
Roxhythe turned his head. It was characteristic of him that he showed no surprise.
“You arrive at a good moment, Chris.”
Charles laughed again.
“Thunder of God, but you are like your master! Do you imitate him, Mr. Dart? I did not expect you yet, and here you are as spruce as though you were off to a ball! I wonder, have you been to Flanders at all?”
Christopher came forward and dropped on his knee before the King. It was one of the greatest moments of his life.
“I have the honour to inform Your Majesty that my mission has been successful.” He offered Charles the packet.
The King took it. Roxhythe was contemplating Christopher with amusement.
Without a word Charles broke the seal and scanned what was written on the parchment. He tossed it to Roxhythe and bent over the still kneeling figure.
“Mr. Dart, I thank you. You have more than fulfilled my expectations.” He said no more than that, yet Christopher, listening to the grave voice, felt himself repaid in full. He could not trust himself to speak. Dumbly he held out the signet ring.
Charles slipped it on to his finger. Then he extended his hand.
Christopher held it to his lips as long as he dared.
“Sire—sire—” he stopped.
“Tell me,” said Charles, “is there aught I can do for you?”
Christopher looked up into the melancholy brown eyes that yet held such a twinkle in their depths.
“Your Majesty—overwhelms me. It is enough to know—that I have pleased Your Majesty—and that I have been—of
