"They've done us, that's all," panted Casteno, his eyes flashing with indignation. "Either they've got hold of the manuscripts when they searched St Bruno's, or we've been sold in some fashion we least expect." "Is it Cooper-Nassington?" I hazarded. "Remember, I have had no reply to my telegram!" "I don't know," said the Spaniard, gloomily beginning to pace up and down the cell. "We must wait, I suppose, before we can see. At present we've played our cards to the bitter end, and we've got nowhere." "How about the king?" I queried nervously. "We can do nothing there until we see what Cooper-Nassington has developed into." He relapsed into moody reflection. For a few minutes we did not exchange a word, and then, stopping his restless promenade suddenly, he gripped me excitedly by the arm. "I've got it," he cried, "I've got it. Deserted by all, we'll try the Jesuits." "And sell England, I suppose," I answered coldly. "Not a bit of it." "Oh no. We shall thus procure even more powerful adherents for England than even Lord Cyril is. We will strike a bargain with them, to side with us." "You won't succeed," I said. "I will," he thundered, and he caught the chain attached to a prisoner's bell and rung it violently. "Mind," I returned impressively, "you do this thing against my better judgment, and when you know for a fact that the Jesuits have been as keen almost to get hold of these documents as we have. Bad as our plight is now, I am sure it will be a thousand times worse after you have entrusted our secrets to these subtle sons of St Ignatius. Make no mistake. Understand you have been warned, and that you do this thing with your eyes wide open." "I understand perfectly," he rejoined. "But I am at the last ditch. I shall turn now and fight ruffians of the stamp of Cuthbertson with his own weapons. He has insulted me grossly in that last letter of his, penned by an assistant secretary, I see, and I will repay him `a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, burning for burning'!" And his hands clenched, and upon his features there glowered a look of diabolical rage. I would have said more, but just then a police sergeant answered his summons, and at his request brought him a fresh sheet of notepaper and an envelope, as well as pad, pen, ink, and blotting paper. Thereon he sat down once again on the side of the bed and wrote as under: "_Bow Street Police Station, Cell 12,973_. "_To_ The Rev Father Provincial of the Society of Jesus, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street, Berkeley Square, W.