eyes! Out with your tale!"

His lordship plainly disliked the whole business, and it was a very
awkward thing for Sir James that I was here, a circumstantial piece of
evidence against him. I looked straight into Weir's eyes as he came
forward, ungainly and uncertainly, smiling half his dirty teeth bare, and
mopping his yellowy face with a dirty handkerchief. To my astonishment he
made not a single sign of recognition. I was his trump card, and he left
me unplayed.

"Sir James is a known Jacobite, my lord!" he quavered.

"Quite right, Mr. Weir, and if you propose to keep me out of bed these
cold nights calling on known Jacobites, stap my vitals, Mr. Weir, if I
don't have you flung into a pond with a brick tied round your sweaty neck
like an unwanted pup. Anything else?"

"This is a Jacobite plot, my lord. There's scheming and plotting against
our gracious lord the King agoing on here, my lord."

"I'll e'en have a closer look at 'em. Plots are damned interesting
things, stap me if they a'nt, and I'm glad to see one. Here's a likely
young fellow," striding up and examining me. "His is a plot in a meat-pie,
it seems. There was one in a meal-tub once, I remember, so the meat-pie
does look mighty suspicious, Mr. Weir. We're getting on. And here's a
plotter toasting his toes. Not an intelligent member of the cabal. Stap
me, if he a'nt asleep! I must circumambulate and have a quiz at him."

He walked gaily in his play-acting way round Master Freake's chair on to
the hearth and then turned and took a peep at him. As soon as he had done