My evening meal was brought by a serving-man whom I had not hitherto seen, accompanied by Sam Daddo. Just as if I remained a guest, I spoke to Daddo in a friendly fashion, and asked after the health of his master. He spoke no word in reply, however, although I was sure I saw him wink at me in a meaning way. I was not slow to interpret this, especially when, a few seconds later, I saw it repeated. He remained silent, however, in spite of my frequent questions, so I gave up talking, continuing only to watch. This was not in vain, for as the strange serving-man was passing out of the door, Sam, in following him, put his right hand behind his back and revealed a piece of paper. This I snatched at eagerly, though noiselessly, wondering what it might mean. Ere long I was able to examine it, for my gaolers locked the door, and I listened to their footsteps as they traversed a passage, and climbed some stone steps. Lifting my couch, and placing it against the door so that I might not be surprised, I went to my window and unfolded the piece of paper I had taken from Sam Daddo's hand. Only a few words were written thereon, but enough to give me food for thought. This was what I read: "_I hope I have misjudged you. Forgive me if I have. I have heard of all that took place after you left me last night. I grieve much that you should be a prisoner because of me; but means may be offered for your escape. I need a friend sorely, for I am in dire danger, and I am a weak, ignorant girl. Once at Polperro, I should be safe. The one who gives you this may not help you, although he would not willingly harm me. Unless help comes I shall be wedded to O. in a week, and I welcome the thought of death more._" As I said, this missive gave me much food for thought. It was evidently written by Mistress Nancy Molesworth. Little consideration was needed, moreover, to assure me that she must be in sore straits or she would not have sought to enlist the sympathy of a prisoner. A few hours before she had spurned me as a liar. But I bore her no grudge for that--I had deserved it. It was apparent Sam Daddo had told his sweetheart what had passed between Otho Killigrew and myself. He had doubtless listened at the door, and heard all. This, perchance, had led the maid to write me. Yet she knew not what was in my mind, and must risk much in trusting me. She seemed to regard my escape as a possibility, and therefore built upon it. I must confess, too, that her helplessness appealed to me, and a feeling of joy surged in my heart at the thought of striking a blow for her liberty.