Master Gridley took out from his pocket-book a scrap of paper, and handed it to Cynthia Badlam.  Her hand shook as she received it, for she was frightened as well as enraged, and she saw that Mr. Gridley was in earnest and knew what he was doing.

She read the six words, he looking at her steadily all the time, and watching her as if he had just given her a drop of prussic acid.

No cry.  No sound from her lips.  She stared as if half stunned for one moment, then turned her head and glared at Mr. Gridley as if she would have murdered him if she dared.  In another instant her face whitened, the scrap of paper fluttered to the floor, and she would have followed it but for the support of both Mr. Gridley’s arms.  He disengaged one of them presently, and felt in his pocket for the sal volatile.  It served him excellently well, and stung her back again to her senses very quickly.  All her defiant aspect had gone.

“Look!” he said, as he lighted the scrap of paper in the flame.  “You understand me, and you see that I must be answered the next time I ask my question.”

She opened her lips as if to speak.  It was as when a bell is rung in a vacuum,—­no words came from them,—­only a faint gasping sound, an effort at speech.  She was caught tight in the heart-screw.

“Don’t hurry yourself, Miss Cynthia,” he said, with a certain relenting tenderness of manner.  “Here, take another sniff of the smelling-salts.  Be calm, be quiet,—­I am well disposed towards you,—­I don’t like to give you trouble.  There, now, I must have the answer to that question; but take your time, take your time.”

“Give me some water,—­some water!” she said, in a strange hoarse whisper.  There was a pitcher of water and a tumbler on an old marble sideboard near by.  He filled the tumbler, and Cynthia emptied it as if she had just been taken from the rack, and could have swallowed a bucketful.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“I wish to know all that you can tell me about a certain paper, or certain papers, which I have reason to believe Mr. William Murray Bradshaw committed to your keeping.”

“There is only one paper of any consequence.  Do you want to make him kill me? or do you want to make me kill myself?”

“Neither, Miss Cynthia, neither.  I wish to see that paper, but not for any bad purpose.  Don’t you think, on the whole, you have pretty good reason to trust me?  I am a very quiet man, Miss Cynthia.  Don’t be afraid of me; only do what I ask,—­it will be a great deal better for you in the end.”