_I think you would like this back. At least, I do not think you would like it to go to Mr. Persimmon. You may have it for ten thousand pounds._ _If the money is not paid on or before the seventh of August, upon August the ninth the original will be received by Mr. Persimmon and copies by your aunt and uncle and twenty of your intimate friends._ _Just three points more._ _If you call in the Law or seek to avoid my conditions the several communications will be dispatched at once._ _Secondly, overtures are useless. I will not extend the time, nor will I accept one penny less than ten thousand pounds in Bank of England notes._ _Thirdly, I will deal with you or Mr. Beaulieu, but no one else. His production of this note will accredit him: and his production of the ten thousand pounds will bring him a letter which I am sure he will value, as well as twenty-two typed copies, which, if he pleases, I will burn before his eyes._ _I shall be at the above address daily from eleven a.m. until noon._ _Yours faithfully_, _THE MASTER_. _Miss Patricia Bohun,_ _Castle Breathless,_ _Surrey._ Simon put the letter into a breast-pocket and returned to Patricia like a man in a trance. His brain was trying to cope with too much for a brain to control. Dreams, hopes, mountainous fears—the powers of light and darkness fought like mad to be considered. The runners were going down, for the Stewards’ Cup. Simon watched them dazedly. Grey Ruby was moving well. “Let’s go to the Lyvedens’ box,” said Simon Beaulieu. “They won’t be there, and I want to see this race.” Patricia shot him a glance. Then— “All right, Simon,” she said. They passed to the back of the stand and up the stairs. . . . Simon took out his glasses and put them up. “I take it,” he said quietly, “that if you had ten thousand, that letter’s worth it—to you.” “Yes,” said Patricia, “it is. It’s—it’s a question of saving my name.” She hesitated—then burst out. “But what can I do? Of course they think I’m rich. Not rolling, perhaps, but rich enough to get loans—borrow—find the money somehow, as rich people can. And I haven’t two hundred pounds. I’ve got my pearls, but what can I do with them? I couldn’t explain their disappearance. I might pretend I’d lost them, but they’re insured. Oh, Simon, isn’t it cruel? All round us people are sinning—callously, wantonly sinning—sinning for the sake of sin: but they never get caught. And I—I who’ve tried to live clean and play the game—because I love you I write one wretched letter that I’ve no business to write—and get clean bowled.” A bell stammered, and the tumult and shouting of Tattersalls’ ring, died a sudden death. The race had begun. Simon put down his glasses and wiped them carefully. Then he put them back to his eyes.