“I suppose we shall have to let the Bishop off with a fine,” said the minister, “in regard to the Maid’s affair; but we shall catch him presently over the Act; and Mr. More is clear of it.  But we shall have him too in a few days.  Put down what you have to say, Mr. Torridon, and let me have it this evening.”

And then he rustled off down the staircase to where his carriage was waiting to take him to Westminster, where he proposed to tell the scrupulous peers that the King was not accustomed to command twice, and that to suspect his Grace of wishing them to do an injustice was a piece of insolence that neither himself nor his royal master had expected of them.

Ralph was actually engaged in putting down his very scanty accusations against Sir Thomas More when the letter from Beatrice was brought up to him.  He read it through twice in silence; and then ordered the courier to wait below.  When the servant had left the room, he read it through a third time.

It was not long; but it was pregnant.

“I entreat you, sir,” wrote the girl, “for the love of Jesu, to let us know if anything is designed against our friend.  Three weeks ago you told me it was not so; I pray God that may be true still.  I know that you would not lift a finger against him yourself—­” (Ralph glanced at his own neat little list at these words, and bit his pen)—­“but I wish you to do what you can for him and for us all.”  Then followed an erasure.

Ralph carried the paper to the window, flattened it against the panes and read clearly the words, “If my” under the scratching lines, and smiled to himself as he guessed what the sentence was that she was beginning.

Then the letter continued.

“I hear on good authority that there is something against him.  He will not escape; and will do nothing on such hearsay, but only tells us to trust God, and laughs at us all.  Good Mr. Torridon, do what you can.  Your loving friend, B.A.”

Ralph went back from the window where he was still standing, and sat down again, bending his head into his hands.  He had no sort of scruples against lying as such or betraying Mr. More’s private conversation; his whole training was directed against such foolishness, and he had learnt at last from Cromwell’s incessant precept and example that the good of the State over-rode all private interests.  But he had a disinclination to lie to Beatrice; and he felt simply unable to lose her friendship by telling her the truth.

As he sat there perfectly still, the servant peeped in once softly to see if the answer was ready, and noiselessly withdrew.  Ralph did not stir; but still sat on, pressing his eyeballs till they ached and fiery rings twisted before him in the darkness.  Then he abruptly sat up, blinked a moment or two, took up a pen, bit it again, and laid it down and sat eyeing the two papers that lay side by side on his desk.