Ralph finished the letter he was engaged on--one to Dr. Barnes who had preached a Protestant sermon at Paul’s Cross, and who now challenged Bishop Gardiner to a public disputation. Ralph was telling him to keep his pugnacity to himself; and when he had done took up the reports and ran his eyes over them. They were of the usual nature--complaints, informations, protests, appeals from men of every rank of life; agents, farm-labourers, priests, ex-Religious, fanatics--and he read them quickly through, docketing their contents at the head of each that his master might be saved trouble. At one, however, he stopped, glanced momentarily at Cromwell, and then read on. It was an illiterate letter, ill-spelt and smudged, and consisted of a complaint from a man who signed himself Robert Benham, against “Mr. Ralph Torridon, as he named himself,” for hindering the performance of a piece entitled “The Jolly Friar” in the parish of Overfield, on Sunday, February the first. Mr. Torridon, the writer stated, had used my Lord Cromwell’s name and authority in stopping the play; expenses had been incurred in connection with it, for a barn had been hired, and the transport of the properties had cost money; and Mr. Benham desired to know whether these expenses would be made good to him, and if Mr. Torridon had acted in accordance with my Lord’s wishes. Ralph bit his pen in some perplexity, when he had finished making out the document. He wondered whether he had better show it to Cromwell; it might irritate him or not, according to his mood. If it was destroyed surely no harm would be done; and yet Ralph had a disinclination to destroy it. He sat a moment or two longer considering; once he took the paper by the corners to tear it; then laid it down again; glanced once more at the heavy intent face a couple of yards away, and then by a sudden impulse took up his pen and wrote a line on the corner explaining the purport of the paper, initialled it, and laid it with the rest. Cromwell was so busy during the rest of the day that there was no opportunity to explain the circumstances to him; indeed he was hardly in the room again, so great was the crowd that waited on him continually for interviews, and Ralph went away, leaving the reports for his chief to examine at his leisure. * * * * * The next morning there was a storm. Cromwell burst out on him as soon as he came in. “Shut the door, Mr. Torridon,” he snapped. “I must have a word with you.” Ralph closed the door and came across to Cromwell’s table and stood there, apparently imperturbable, but with a certain quickening of his pulse. “What is this, sir?” snarled the other, taking up the letter that was laid at his hand. “Is it true?” Ralph looked at him coolly. “What is it, my Lord? Mr. Robert Benham?” “Yes, Mr. Robert Benham. Is it true? I wish an answer.” “Certainly, my Lord. It is true.” “You hindered this piece being played? And you used my name?”