"Why?" put in Radisson, with cold indifference and half-listening air.

"Gad's life, can't you see?" asked the knave. "Osmond's dead, the
boy's lands are hers--the French doctor may 'a' told somebody," and
Colonel Blood of His Majesty's service slid under the table with the
judge.

M. Radisson rose and led the way out.

"You'd like to cudgel him," he said. "Come with me to Whitehall
instead!"




CHAPTER XXIX

THE KING'S PLEASURE

My Lady Kirke was all agog.

Pierre Radisson was her "dear sweet savage," and "naughty spark," and
"bold, bad beau," and "devilish fellow," and "lovely wretch!"

"La, Pierre," she cries, with a tap of her fan, "anybody can go to the
king's _levee_! But, dear heart!" she trills, with a sidelong ogle.
"Ta!--ta! naughty devil!--to think of our sweet savage going to
Whitehall of an evening! Lud, Mary, I'll wager you, Her Grace of
Portsmouth hath laid eyes on him----"