"Well, let us hear the rest of this," I said. "Surely Otho must have been attending the performances of some travelling showman, for such plots smack of a fourth-rate playhouse." "He sorely frightened me, for he threatened to torture you; and you know what a cruel face he has." "Well, and what was the end of it?" By this time my heart began to grow bitter towards Otho Killigrew, and had he been there at that moment it would have gone hard with him. "He told me that you had been taken to a place of safety, and then asked me if I would allow him to take me there. He said it was the only condition on which he would show you any mercy." "And you?" "I refused him again. And yet I fancy my looks must have consented, for, Roger," and she nestled closer to me again, "I hoped that I might be able to help you." Now this matter required thought, for I felt sure Otho had some deep-laid purpose in it all. "He said he would return as soon as his duties allowed him," she added presently. "Here?" "Yes." "You will refuse to admit him?" "Oh, there will be no need now--you will be here;--that's--no--no--you must not. He seems to have discovered all about the house, and even old Adam Coad obeys him. If he finds you here he will find means to kill you." "You need not fear," I said; "to-night all the Killigrews will be prisoners, and before long they will be hanged," and I told her what was being done. "Then he cannot come back here to-night?" "No, he will not be here. All the same, let every door be bolted. But I must away." She looked at me piteously. She was so changed, this maid Nancy, during the last hour. All her reserve, all her coldness had gone. "But I will be back before morning," I said, "and then----" I stopped, for my heart grew cold. In very truth, I seemed helpless. She seemed to divine my thoughts, for she concluded the sentence. "I shall have no care. And yet," and this she said sadly, "O Roger, I cared naught about this--this story of Trevisa's till to-night. If it is true, I shall be dowerless--nameless. I shall take every thing and give you nothing--that is--nothing but--myself." The last words came coyly, and yet with a sob, and for the moment I cared nothing, even the loss of my old home weighed no more than thistledown. But only for a moment; my destitution rested heavily on me a minute later. "It is all well," I cried in a tone of confidence I was far from feeling. "Even although Trevisa's story be true, I shall have--but there is not time to tell you now. Wait for me, my love. No harm can come to you to-night--and I will soon be back. I will not knock this time; you may know me by this cry," and I imitated the hoot of a night bird.