“Did you listen, then?” said he. “I was going to,” I answered; “but the moment I bent, your chairs moved, and I was frightened, and ran away.” “That sounds frank,” said he. He sat musing a little. “You’re a child, ’tis true, mutable and thoughtless; but where could be the harm? If the secret were mine only-- Well, study for my confidence, and some day, perhaps”-- He broke off with a smile, which I had a difficulty to return. So there _was_ a mystery in reality. There and then I vowed a Delilah oath to myself to get the better of it. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said; “I had no thought to surprise any secrets. Is that the way through, indeed?” “Yes,” he said; “fairly, it is. ’Tis pierced under the big copper in the kitchen, which has a detachable grate to be pulled all out in one piece. God knows the original use of this contrivance--this space in the wall--unless ’twere always for the purpose that we”--(he checked himself again). “Anyhow, ’tis utterly inaccessible else, save by way of the skylight which your ladyship knows; and now you’re acquainted with your prison, ask me further what you will.” “_Ranger_ Portlock, did you say?” “Ay, ranger; once my brother’s keeper (not like Cain, unhappily), and since promoted.” “You seem to love your brother.” “I have reason.” “And this Portlock is still in his service?” “Yes.” “And in _your_ confidence?” “Ay, is he not! I must tell you I am a proper sportsman, madam, and always more popular with Hardrough’s people than the noble verderer himself. Well, I have taught them something here and there, and put money in their pockets, maybe. Have no fear. Not Portlock nor any other will betray us. I have my merry men of Down, who sink or swim with me. And now I have my Maid Marian. What more? You shall see this Portlock. Bear in mind he was once a thread-paper of a man. I have known him since I was a boy. What else?” “Can you ask me?” I said low, hanging my head. “The reason--what you hinted up there--why you are ruined and in hiding?” He ventured to put an arm about me. How could I refuse him, who was my Bayard? Yet, when he told me, it was not all. He never to the end acquainted me of what social dereliction of his had originally delivered him into the earl his brother’s power, and placed him and his remnant fortunes under the hand of that remorseless nobleman to use and crush at his will. He never even admitted but indirectly that stain on his birth, in which a high person was whispered to be implicated, and which was at the root, perhaps, of all the trouble. “He always hated me,” he said of the Lord Herring; “and never more than when he foresaw my succession in the death of his promising limb, my nephew.” “What, is he dead?” I asked, astonished. “No,” he said, “but only rotten. He will never come into the title, believe me.” “And you,” I said, curiously interested. “How will he keep you out, if the worst should happen to him?”