‘I will make a point of doing so, but I’m afraid you are labouring under a mistake. There was so little doubt of Miss Llewellyn’s death. The young woman you have seen may be a sister, or other relation. It is worth while inquiring.’ ‘But don’t compromise Ilfracombe in doing so. He particularly begged me not to mention his name when I called here, in case they might be of the same family. But I mustn’t stay longer, Jack, so please let me have the letters.’ ‘All right. But you must come and fetch them.’ ‘Well, I am here, safe enough.’ ‘Perhaps, but the letters are not here. They are in my despatch-box in my room.’ ‘Go and bring them then.’ ‘The bargain was that _you_ were to fetch them, Nora.’ ‘But not to enter your room, Jack. I cannot do that. It is impossible. I refuse.’ ‘Then you can’t fetch the letters, my lady.’ ‘And have you brought me here to play me such an unfair trick as that? You knew that I could not enter your room? It would be risking the happiness of my whole future life. Supposing Mr Lennox were to return suddenly, and find me closeted there with you? You want to ruin me. I shall do no such thing.’ ‘You know now that you are only quibbling, Nora--only fighting with the inevitable. You will not rest till you have those letters in your own hands. You have told me you would give half your fortune to get them, and yet you refuse to pass the threshold of my room. What nonsense. You must devise some others means by which to procure them then, for I will not go back from my word. I said you should have them if you would fetch them, and now that they are within your reach, you refuse to stretch out your hand and take them. Very well, it is not my fault. You must return without them.’ Nora thought a minute, and then said,-- ‘What time is it?’ ‘Half-past twelve,’ replied her companion. ‘They will not break up over there for another hour and a half.’ She knew she was as much within this man’s power as if he held the proofs of some great crime which she had committed. She did not exactly remember what her foolish letters to him contained; but she was sure there was sufficient love-sick folly in them which, aided by his inuendoes, and even falsehoods, might bring everlasting disgrace upon her, to say nothing of Ilfracombe’s serious displeasure which she dreaded still more. To lose her husband’s trust and confidence and respect--perhaps his love--was too terrible a contingency in the young countess’s eyes. She had been guilty of a fearful social error in going to the farm at all; she knew that, but now she was there, would it not be better to comply with Jack Portland’s conditions, hard as they might be, than to return to the Hall, having played her _escapade_ for nothing. ‘Where are the letters?’ was the next question she asked him. ‘I have told you. In my despatch-box.’ ‘But where is the box?’ ‘On a table just within the door.’