“We have always been good, true friends, my lord.  Your father and mine have shared in many and continued vicissitudes, and for this cause alone, barring our friendships of more recent years, I would give thee a secret of which I am only half owner.”

“And what is this secret, your Grace?  I am interested.”

“A secret cut into is only half a secret, and—­”

“Ah! ah! how stupid I have grown!  By all means, we are dealing in fractions, and to get the other half I must either pay or go a-hunting for it.”

“And thou, being hot-foot after most precious game, methought ’twould best serve to give thee a clue, as to the value of the secret, that thou couldst determine whether ’twas worth the finding;—­whether ’twas worth the leaving off pursuit of that thou art after,”—­and the Duke threw open his waistcoat and revealed its lining of rare satin and a pocket that contained a paper written upon in a writing that made Lord Cedric start, for he recognized it as Sir John Penwick’s.  And there recurred to him the conversation he overheard at the monastery, when one said,—­“and once Sir John gets to this country.”  But nay; his very last words in his own waistcoat pocket?  So he spoke out disdainfully,—­

“And thou dost embroider thy facings with dead men’s autographs?”

“They are the better preserved, my lord,” said the Duke, with a smile.

“Then I am to understand the secret doth nearly concern Mistress Pen wick, and if I should show her favour, I would pay well for a sequel to that thou art about to unfold, eh!  Duke?”

“Aye, pay well; for the demand will be more than thou dost imagine,” and he took the paper and gave it into Cedric’s hands.

At a glance Cedric saw that the outside paper only was written on by Sir John; the inner document, containing the whole story, being made in a strange hand.  And Cedric said to himself,—­“Aye, ’tis a ruse.  Sir John is dead and I’ll wager on’t.”

“Thou mayest occupy my chamber, which for the present is here.”  The Duke left the anxious Cedric to read at leisure.

Lord Cedric knew ’twas not his Grace’s way to waste time on things of no moment, and he therefore apprehended evil and his fingers trembled; his dark eyes grew large as he read; his face changing from red to white as the different emotions were awakened; his white teeth crushing his lips.  Sir John Penwick had left England, taking all his worldly goods—­which were of no mean value—­with him.  He settled his possessions in the New World.  These in time became very great and he was known as one of the wealthiest men in the locality in which he lived.  After six years of married life, a great grief came upon him; his wife died, leaving him a baby girl of five.  This so unsettled him—­having loved his wife beyond measure—­he turned again to warfare, having interest and inclination for naught else.  He sent his baby daughter with her nurse, Janet Wadham, to the Ursuline Convent at