“Then may I trouble her to hand to the Herr Oberst in private a small packet? I was charged to deliver it only to himself or to the gracious lady, and I have waited here for hours, hoping to see one or other of them in the garden, for there is one of Drakovics’s spies hanging about in front of the inn. Happily I found my way up the mountain by a shepherd’s path, and he did not see me, but I was beginning to wonder whether I must stay here until it was dark, and then manage to climb up to the balcony and tap at the Herr Oberst’s window. The attempt would have been both unpleasant and dangerous, and I cannot be too thankful that fate directed the gracious lady’s steps to this part of the garden.” A flood of thoughts rushed across Nadia’s mind as she stood on tiptoe and held out her hand for the letter, listening to what the messenger said without hearing it. This man was one of the Thracian conspirators. Even now he was acting as an emissary of Louis’s, and carrying despatches to the various persons who were engaged in the plot. Despatches!--had not her mother warned her that the O’Malachy was expecting a message from Louis, a message which was to inform him of the route by which Caerleon would enter Tatarjé, a message which would enable him to carry out the dreadful deed he was contemplating? This man had brought it. It was for him that the O’Malachy had been watching since his return from Pavelsburg, but he had counted upon intercepting him either in going to or returning from the grave if he arrived to-day, for it was evident that he had not discovered the presence of the secret agent in the village street. And his refusal to let Nadia attend the funeral--the prohibition which had cost her so many tears--had been the means of placing in her power the precious scrap of paper on which, humanly speaking, hung Caerleon’s life! It did not at the moment occur to her, what was indeed the case, that the messenger had mistaken her for her mother, and had thus given her the note without any misgiving; but as soon as the envelope was in her hand, a cold chill ran through her. How was she to find out what it contained? To suppress the letter would mean the ruin of her only chance of helping Caerleon if the action were discovered, while to open it, read it, and close it again, would be dishonourable. And yet--and yet--surely if such an action could ever be justifiable, it was so in this case. Her fingers closed upon the flap of the envelope; it would be easy, when once the messenger had departed, to soften the gum with a little hot water and examine the letter, but the teaching of a lifetime was too strong for her, and she repulsed the temptation in horror. The next moment another thought occurred to her, which differed from the first, although she did not see this at the time, in degree rather than in kind. “Was there any verbal message,” she asked, “to be delivered in case you were taken prisoner, and obliged to destroy the letter?”