This strange and horrible idea of an unknown power into whose clutches she had suddenly fallen, and from which even love and home were unable to shield her, drove the poor child almost frantic; she clung to him convulsively, with her face white as death, terrified beyond tears. 'Harold!' she cried, seizing his hand in both hers, 'you won't let them! I--I can't go to prison, and leave them all. I don't like the dark. I _couldn't_ stay in it till I was grown up, and never see Mabel or Colin or anybody. Tell me what to do--only tell me, and I'll do it!' Again some quite advanced scoundrels might have hesitated to cast so fearful a shadow over a child's bright life, and the necessity annoyed Caffyn to some extent, but his game was nearly won--there would not be much more of it. 'I mustn't _do_ anything for you,' he said; 'if I did my duty, I should have to give you up to---- No, it's all right, Dolly, I should never dream of doing that. But I can do no more. Still, if you choose, you can help _yourself_--and I promise to say nothing about it.' 'How do you mean?' said Dolly; 'if--if I stuck it together and left it?' 'Do you think that wouldn't be seen? It would, though! No, Dolly, if anyone but you and I catches sight of that letter, it will all be found out--must be!' 'Do you mean?--oh, no, Harold, I couldn't _burn_ it!' There was a fire in the grate, for the morning, in spite of the season, had been chilly. 'Don't suppose _I_ advise you to burn it,' said Caffyn. 'It's a bad business from beginning to end--it's wrong (at least it isn't right) to burn the letter. Only--there's no other way, if you want to keep out of prison. And if you make up your mind to burn it, Dolly, why you can rely on me to keep the secret. _I_ don't want to see a poor little girl shut up in prison if I can help it, _I_ can tell you. But do as you like about it, Dolly; I mustn't interfere.' Dolly could bear it no more; she snatched the flimsy foreign paper, tore it across and flung it into the heart of the fire. Then, as the flames began to play round the edges, she repented, and made a wild dart forward to recover the letter. 'It's Mabel's,' she cried; 'I'm afraid to burn it--I'm afraid!' But Caffyn caught her, and held her little trembling hands fast in his cool grasp, while the letter that Holroyd had written in Ceylon with such wild secret hopes flared away to a speckled grey rag, and floated lightly up the chimney. 'Too late now, Dolly!' he said, with a ring of triumph in his voice. 'You would only have blistered those pretty little fingers of yours, my child. And now,' he said, indicating the scrap of paper which bore the stamp, 'if you'll take my advice, you'll send that thing after the other.'