“You see what you get, little Pilly,” he said. “You see what you get. Eh?” Margaret set aside the chair and advanced upon him. “Now, Stukeley,” he said, “that letter.” Stukeley backed a pace to avoid him. Perrin, recovering, felt blindly along the table for a knife. At this moment the door opened, and Olivia entered. “I’ve come to ask if I might read the letter. Uncle Nestor’s letter, Charles,” she said. Perrin, in a voice which shook with the hysteria of wrath, told her that she had better ask her husband. “There it is,” said Margaret quietly, indicating Stukeley. Olivia glanced at the three men with surprise, even anxiety. Stukeley, who had not yet read the letter, looked to Margaret for a hint that the letter might be shown. “There it is,” Margaret repeated. “What is the matter with you three men?” Olivia asked. “You were fighting.” “Pilly gets so excited,” Stukeley said. “What were you doing, Tom?” “Reading the letter,” Perrin said. “What is in the letter?” “There it is,” said Margaret. Olivia walked softly to her husband. “May I see the letter?” she said, her eyes full of tears. “I may read the letter, Charles?” “Yes. I wish you to read it.” “There it is,” said Stukeley, handing it to her. “What did you two asses make such a fuss for?” He sat down, helped himself to wine, and lighted a roll of tobacco-leaf, a kind of primitive cigar. Between the puffs, he glanced at the two men, and at Olivia’s face. Something in Olivia’s face attracted him: the eyes seemed to burn; the eyes seemed to be her intelligence, now starting outward. He looked at Margaret, wondering if he had done rightly to give the letter; but Margaret stood there, grave, courteous, self-controlled, his face a mask. Olivia read the letter, turned the sheet to see if a postscript had been added, then read it through a second time, turning very white. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Have you read this, Tom?” “No, Livy. Let’s see it.” “I suppose I may show it to Tom, Charles?” “Yes, Olivia.” “You’ve read the letter, Charles?” “Yes, Olivia.” “Well. I don’t understand. What is Uncle Nestor thinking, Tom?” Stukeley read the letter, with a desire to have Margaret’s throat in his hands, squeezing the life out of him. He looked savagely at Margaret. “You swine, to let me in for this,” he thought. Then he became conscious that Olivia was closely watching him. “Strange,” he said, puckering his brows. He took a gulp of wine and looked at Margaret. “Hadn’t we better go aboard?” he added. “It’s not a thing we can discuss here. Old Howard might come in.” “But we can’t go aboard, Tom. The ship is sailing.” “All our things are on board.” “Yes. But we must get them. We must go home. You see that, Tom, don’t you? We must go home to clear our names.” “We can’t go, Livy, for the reason I told you before.” “They’re saying these things about us, though.”