“What have you been doing since you arrived here?” “I was so fortunate as to become mate on the turbine yacht ‘The Walrus,’ owned by Mr. Stockwell.” “Oh, that’s the multi-millionaire whose bank failed a month ago?” “Yes, Madam.” “But does he still keep a yacht?” “No, Madam. I think he has never been aboard this one, although it is probably the most expensive boat in these waters. I am told it cost anywhere from half a million to a million. She was built by Thornycroft, like a cruiser, with Parson’s turbine engines in her. After the failure, Captain and crew were discharged, and I am on board as a sort of watchman until she is sold, but there is not a large market for a boat like ‘The Walrus,’ and I am told they will take the fittings out of her, and sell her as a cruiser to one of the South American republics.” “Well, Mr. Johnson, you ought to be a reliable man, if the Court has put you in charge of so valuable a property.” “I believe I am considered honest, Madam.” “Then why do you come to me asking ten thousand dollars for a letter which you say was written to me, and which naturally belongs to me?” The man’s face deepened into a mahogany brown, and he shifted his cap uneasily in his hands. “Madam, I am not acting for myself. I am Secretary of the Russian Liberation Society. They, through their branch at St. Petersburg, have conducted some investigations on your behalf.” “Yes, for which I paid them very well.” Johnson bowed. “Our object, Madam, is the repression of tyranny. For that we are in continual need of money. It is the poor, and not the millionaires, who subscribe to our fund. It has been discovered that you are a rich woman, who will never miss the money asked, and so the demand was made. Believe me, Madam, I am acting by the command of my comrades. I tried to persuade them to leave compensation to your own generosity, but they refused. If you consider their demand unreasonable, you have but to say so, and I will return and tell them your decision.” “Have you brought the letter with you?” “Yes, Madam.” “Must I agree to your terms before seeing it?” “Yes, Madam.” “Have you read it?” “Yes, Madam.” “Do you think it worth ten thousand dollars?” The sailor looked up at the decorated ceiling for several moments before he replied. “That is a question I cannot answer,” he said at last. “It all depends on what you think of the writer.” “Answer one more question. By whom is the letter signed?” “There is no signature, Madam. It was found in the house where the two young men lived. Our people searched the house from top to bottom surreptitiously, and they think the writer was arrested before he had finished the letter. There is no address, and nothing to show for whom it is intended, except the phrase beginning, ‘My dearest Dorothy.’” The girl leaned back in her chair, and drew a long breath. “It is not for me,” she said, hastily; then bending forward, she cried suddenly: “I agree to your terms: give it to me.”