Very late in the evening of Friday the twenty-first, Pendergrass, who had as yet disclosed much less than either of the other informers, but whose single word was worth much more than their joint oath, was sent for to the royal closet.  The faithful Portland and the gallant Cutts were the only persons who witnessed the singular interview between the King and his generous enemy.  William, with courtesy and animation which he rarely showed, but which he never showed without making a deep impression, urged Pendergrass to speak out.  “You are a man of true probity and honour; I am deeply obliged to you; but you must feel that the same considerations which have induced you to tell us so much ought to induce you to tell us something more.  The cautions which you have as yet given can only make me suspect every body that comes near me.  They are sufficient to embitter my life, but not sufficient to preserve it.  You must let me know the names of these men.”  During more than half an hour the King continued to entreat and Pendergrass to refuse.  At last Pendergrass said that he would give the information which was required, if he could be assured that it would be used only for the prevention of the crime, and not for the destruction of the criminals.  “I give you my word of honour,” said William, “that your evidence shall not be used against any person without your own free consent.”  It was long past midnight when Pendergrass wrote down the names of the chief conspirators.

While these things were passing at Kensington, a large party of the assassins were revelling at a Jacobite tavern in Maiden Lane.  Here they received their final orders for the morrow.  “Tomorrow or never,” said King.  “Tomorrow, boys,” cried Cassels with a curse, “we shall have the plunder of the field.”  The morrow came.  All was ready; the horses were saddled; the pistols were loaded; the swords were sharpened; the orderlies were on the alert; they early sent intelligence from the palace that the King was certainly going a hunting; all the usual preparations had been made; a party of guards had been sent round by Kingston Bridge to Richmond; the royal coaches, each with six horses, had gone from the stables at Charing Cross to Kensington.  The chief murderers assembled in high glee at Porter’s lodgings.  Pendergrass, who, by the King’s command, appeared among them, was greeted with ferocious mirth.  “Pendergrass,” said Porter, “you are named one of the eight who are to do his business.  I have a musquetoon for you that will carry eight balls.”  “Mr. Pendergrass,” said King, “pray do not be afraid of smashing the glass windows.”  From Porter’s lodgings the party adjourned to the Blue Posts in Spring Gardens, where they meant to take some refreshment before they started for Turnham Green.  They were at table when a message came from an orderly that the King had changed his mind and would not hunt; and scarcely had they recovered from their first surprise at this ominous news, when Keyes, who had been out