against.
Matters were further complicated by a report that had reached him from London that very morning of the House of Lords debate of Saturday evening. Sir John Blunt, it seemed, had refused to tell their assembled lordships what he had confided to Brodrick's committee. Proceedings had been acrimonious and inconclusive. Lord Stanhope, it was stated, had been 'taken ill' in the midst of a furious exchange with the Duke of Wharton. His exact condition was not known.
Taken all in all, Dalrymple did not rightly see how he could be less comfortably placed. Knight's papers were in transit. Stanhope was ill. Cloisterman was on — or up — to something. And Kempis required an answer. Dalrymple tended, in these circumstances, as in so many others, to favour procrastination. But he doubted it would carry him through.
'If you insist upon an answer at this time, mijnheer—'
'I do.'
'I should not recommend you to, I really should not.'
'I will take my own advice, thank you, Mr Dalrymple.'
'As you please.'
'Are my terms accepted?'
'As I say, this really is not—'
'Are they accepted?'
Dalrymple took a long, calming breath. 'No, mijnheer. They are not.'
'Not?' Kempis cocked one eyebrow. He seemed not so much angry as incredulous. 'I cannot have heard you correctly.'
'His Majesty's Secretary of State for the Northern Department—'
'Who?'
'Lord Stanhope. The relevant minister.'
'Very well. What does he say?'
Dalrymple glanced down at Stanhope's letter and decided against direct quotation as likely only to prove inflammatory. 'He rejects your demands.'
'He does what?'
'He declines to entertain them, mijnheer. He is quite... unequivocal... on the point.'
'You did tell him what I told you... about the Green Book?'
'I did indeed.'
'Then he cannot say no to me.'
'But he has.'
'That is his last word on the matter?'
'I do not say that. The situation is somewhat volatile at present. Wait a while and it is poss—'
'Wait?' Now Kempis was angry. He jumped from his chair and glared across the desk at Dalrymple, his eyes flashing. 'You expect me to dally here while Lord Stanhope's agents come in search of me — and what I hold? You must think me mad, sir. Your masters have had time enough. If they won't pay me, someone else will.'
'Who might you have in mind, mijnheer?' Dalrymple asked, exerting himself to sound unflustered.
'Oh, I think I know where I will find a ready buyer, never fear. You may tell Lord Stanhope that the King will not thank him when he realizes who that buyer is. Or exactly what he has bought. Be it on his head. And on yours, Mr Dalrymple. Good day to you, sir.'
The discussion had gone as well, Dalrymple afterwards concluded, as it could have been expected to. Nobody would be able to reproach him. He had done what he had been bidden to do. And he had taken one significant precaution, instructing Harris, his secretary's clerk, to follow Kempis upon his departure from the Embassy. Harris was quick-witted and fleet-footed enough to trail Kempis to his lodgings. But he returned less than half an hour later with disappointing news.
'I think he must have been expecting something of the kind, sir. He walked to Prinsessegracht and I kept behind him, out of his line of sight, all the way. But a coach was waiting for him there. They took off at a tearing pace, I can tell you. I thought I glimpsed a woman in the coach. I couldn't get close enough to see any more. They crossed the canal at the next bridge and headed east.'
Kempis had eluded him. That too, Dalrymple felt, was to have been expected. All he could hope now was that he would hear no more from him — or even about him.
But Dalrymple's hopes were to be dashed that very evening. A reception at the Swedish Embassy promised only the blandest of entertainment, but an appearance by him, however brief, was inescapably called for. No sooner had he arrived, late and in unsociable humour, than other guests were sympathizing with him on a loss to his
Matters were further complicated by a report that had reached him from London that very morning of the House of Lords debate of Saturday evening. Sir John Blunt, it seemed, had refused to tell their assembled lordships what he had confided to Brodrick's committee. Proceedings had been acrimonious and inconclusive. Lord Stanhope, it was stated, had been 'taken ill' in the midst of a furious exchange with the Duke of Wharton. His exact condition was not known.
Taken all in all, Dalrymple did not rightly see how he could be less comfortably placed. Knight's papers were in transit. Stanhope was ill. Cloisterman was on — or up — to something. And Kempis required an answer. Dalrymple tended, in these circumstances, as in so many others, to favour procrastination. But he doubted it would carry him through.
'If you insist upon an answer at this time, mijnheer—'
'I do.'
'I should not recommend you to, I really should not.'
'I will take my own advice, thank you, Mr Dalrymple.'
'As you please.'
'Are my terms accepted?'
'As I say, this really is not—'
'Are they accepted?'
Dalrymple took a long, calming breath. 'No, mijnheer. They are not.'
'Not?' Kempis cocked one eyebrow. He seemed not so much angry as incredulous. 'I cannot have heard you correctly.'
'His Majesty's Secretary of State for the Northern Department—'
'Who?'
'Lord Stanhope. The relevant minister.'
'Very well. What does he say?'
Dalrymple glanced down at Stanhope's letter and decided against direct quotation as likely only to prove inflammatory. 'He rejects your demands.'
'He does what?'
'He declines to entertain them, mijnheer. He is quite... unequivocal... on the point.'
'You did tell him what I told you... about the Green Book?'
'I did indeed.'
'Then he cannot say no to me.'
'But he has.'
'That is his last word on the matter?'
'I do not say that. The situation is somewhat volatile at present. Wait a while and it is poss—'
'Wait?' Now Kempis was angry. He jumped from his chair and glared across the desk at Dalrymple, his eyes flashing. 'You expect me to dally here while Lord Stanhope's agents come in search of me — and what I hold? You must think me mad, sir. Your masters have had time enough. If they won't pay me, someone else will.'
'Who might you have in mind, mijnheer?' Dalrymple asked, exerting himself to sound unflustered.
'Oh, I think I know where I will find a ready buyer, never fear. You may tell Lord Stanhope that the King will not thank him when he realizes who that buyer is. Or exactly what he has bought. Be it on his head. And on yours, Mr Dalrymple. Good day to you, sir.'
The discussion had gone as well, Dalrymple afterwards concluded, as it could have been expected to. Nobody would be able to reproach him. He had done what he had been bidden to do. And he had taken one significant precaution, instructing Harris, his secretary's clerk, to follow Kempis upon his departure from the Embassy. Harris was quick-witted and fleet-footed enough to trail Kempis to his lodgings. But he returned less than half an hour later with disappointing news.
'I think he must have been expecting something of the kind, sir. He walked to Prinsessegracht and I kept behind him, out of his line of sight, all the way. But a coach was waiting for him there. They took off at a tearing pace, I can tell you. I thought I glimpsed a woman in the coach. I couldn't get close enough to see any more. They crossed the canal at the next bridge and headed east.'
Kempis had eluded him. That too, Dalrymple felt, was to have been expected. All he could hope now was that he would hear no more from him — or even about him.
But Dalrymple's hopes were to be dashed that very evening. A reception at the Swedish Embassy promised only the blandest of entertainment, but an appearance by him, however brief, was inescapably called for. No sooner had he arrived, late and in unsociable humour, than other guests were sympathizing with him on a loss to his
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