‘Marian,’ she said, beginning to cry again, ‘it is shocking bad news. It is incredible. It may all come right, but it is not the less terrible.’ I drew in several deep breaths, and said: ‘Why will you not tell me this dreadful news of Tom?’ ‘He is in London.’ ‘In London!’ I shrieked, springing to my feet. She pulled me gently to the sofa, and putting her hand in her pocket, drew forth a letter. ‘Your health would not allow me to speak to you before,’ said she in a broken voice. ‘Even now I fear that I am in too great a hurry. But what am I to do? You would not thank me for any longer concealing the truth. Tom is in prison, Marian.’ I stared at her and shivered. ‘Your uncle’s letter,’ she continued, opening it with both hands which trembled excessively, ‘will better explain what has happened than I can. Will you read it?’ I took it. The handwriting reeled. I returned the letter to her and said: ‘Read it to me, aunt.’ She did so. It was to this effect. After all these years I am unable to give it you word for word: ‘I have a terrible piece of news to convey to poor Marian through you. Captain Butler is arrived in London, having been sent home by the British Consul at Rio in H.M.S. _Crusader_. He is charged by the mate and carpenter of the _Arab Chief_ with attempting to scuttle her. These two men, together with two sailors belonging to the crew of the _Arab Chiefs_ are landed with him from the _Crusader_. He instantly sent for me, but I wish there were not so many witnesses against him. That he is absolutely innocent, and that he is the victim of an atrocious conspiracy, I have not the shadow of a doubt. He will be charged at Bow Street on Monday, and will be advised to reserve his defence. He will be committed, of course, to take his trial at the Old Bailey, and we must hope to come off with flying colours. But I say again I could wish there were fewer witnesses. Four to one are fearful odds.’ My aunt had read thus far when a flash of lightning seemed to pass over my eyes, and I remembered no more. I recovered from a fit rather than a swoon. I had been for above an hour unconscious, and found myself on my bed, with the doctor on one hand of me and my aunt on the other. The doctor went away soon after I had regained my mind. Memory was slow in coming. It rushed in upon me on a sudden with its burden of horror. ‘What are you going to do, Marian?’ ‘I am going to London.’ ‘Lie still, my dear child. You cannot go to London to-day. I’ll book by the coach to-morrow morning. I’ll write to your uncle and send the letter to Canterbury to catch the Dover mail-coach. He will be ready to receive us and give us all the news.’