Ralph sat perfectly still, staring at the great fire-plate on which a smoky Phoebus in relief drove the chariot of the sun behind the tall wavering flames that rose from the burning logs. He knew very well why Margaret had spoken, and that she would not speak without reason; but the fact revealed was so bewilderingly new to him that he could not take it in. Margaret looked at him once or twice a little uneasily; and at last sighed. “It is too dark,” she said, “I must fetch candles.” She slipped out of the side-door that led to the servants’ quarters, and Ralph was left alone. All his weariness was gone now; the whirl of images and schemes with which his brain had been seething as he walked up the river-bank half-an-hour before, had receded into obscurity; and one dominating thought filled their place: What if Margaret were right? And what did he mean to do himself? Surely he was not-- The door from the entrance passage opened, and a tall slender figure stood there, now in light, now in shadow, as the flames rose and fell. “Meg,” said a voice. Ralph sat still a moment longer. “Meg,” said Beatrice again, “how dark you are.” Ralph stood up. “Mrs. Roper has just gone,” he said, “you must put up with me, Mrs. Beatrice.” “Who is it?” said the girl advancing. “Mr. Torridon?” She had a paper in her hand as she came across the floor, and Ralph drew out a chair for her on the other side of the hearth. “Yes,” he said. “Mrs. Roper has gone for lights. She will be back immediately.” Beatrice sat down. “It is a troublesome word,” she said. “Master More cannot read it himself, and has sent me to ask Meg. He says that every dutiful daughter should be able to read her father’s hand.” And Ralph could see a faint amused smile in her black eyes, as the firelight shone on them. “Master More always has an escape ready,” he said, as he too sat down. The girl’s hand holding the paper suddenly dropped on to her knee, and the man saw she was looking at him oddly. “Yes?” he said interrogatively; and then-- “Why do you look at me like that, Mrs. Beatrice?” “It is what you said. Do you really think that, Mr. Torridon?” Ralph was bewildered for a moment. “I do not understand,” he said. “Do you truly think he always has an escape ready?” repeated the girl. Then Ralph understood. “You mean he is in danger,” he said steadily. “Well, of course he is. There is no great man that is not. But I do not see why he should not escape as he has always done.” “You think that, Mr. Torridon?” “Why, yes;” went on Ralph, a little hastily. “You remember the matter of the bribe. See how he cleared himself. Surely, Mrs. Beatrice--” “And you really think so,” said the girl. “I know that you know what we do not; and I shall believe what you say.” “How can I tell?” remonstrated Ralph. “I can only tell you that in this matter I know nothing that you do not. Master More is under no suspicion.” Beatrice drew a breath of relief.