He took up his own list, and read it through. After all, it was very insignificant, and contained no more than minute scraps of conversation that Sir Thomas More had let drop. He had called Queen Katharine “poor woman” three or four times; had expressed a reverence for the Pope of Rome half a dozen times, and had once called him the Vicar of Christ. He had been silent when someone had mentioned Anne Boleyn’s name; he had praised the Carthusians and the Religious Life generally, at some length. They were the kind of remarks that might mean nothing or a great deal; they were consistent with loyalty; they were not inconsistent with treason; in fact they were exactly the kind of material out of which serious accusations might be manufactured by a skilled hand, though as they stood they proved nothing. A further consideration to Ralph was his duty to Cromwell; he scarcely felt it seemly to lie whole-heartedly to him; and on the other hand he felt now simply unable to lie to Beatrice. There was only one way out of it,--to prevaricate to them both. He took up his own paper, glanced at it once more; and then with a slightly dramatic gesture tore it across and across, and threw it on the ground. Then he took up his pen and wrote to Beatrice. “I have only had access to one paper against our friend--that I have destroyed, though I do not know what Master Cromwell will say. But I tell you this to show at what a price I value your friendship. “Of course our friend is threatened. Who is not in these days? But I swear to you that I do not know what is the design.” He added a word or two more for politeness’ sake, prayed that “God might have her in His keeping,” and signed himself as she had done, her “loving friend.” Then he dried the ink with his pounce box, sealed the letter with great care, and took it down to the courier himself. * * * * * He faced Cromwell in the evening with a good deal of terror, but with great adroitness; swore positively that More had said nothing actually treasonable, and had found, on putting pen to paper, that the accusations were flimsier than he thought. “But it is your business to see that they be not so,” stormed his master. Ralph paused a moment respectfully. “I cannot make a purse out of a sow’s ear, sir. I must have at least some sort of silk.” When Cromwell had ceased to walk up and down, Ralph pointed out with considerable shrewdness that he did not suppose that his evidence was going to form the main ground of the attack on More; and that it would merely weaken the position to bring such feeble arguments to bear. “Why he would tear them to shreds, sir, in five minutes; he would make out that they were our principal grounds--he is a skilled lawyer. If I may dare to say so, Master Cromwell, let your words against Mr. More be few and choice.”