Ralph pressed in the spring and the panel came away. Within it was a long manuscript written on thick white paper. Ralph thrilled as he read the endorsement. Beyond doubt, here was the will of his grandfather, Sir Ralph Dashwood. All this was quite plain in the moonlight. It only needed now to put the will at the bottom of the dower-chest and write a letter to Sir George anonymously, and tell him where to seek for it. And Ralph had only to be silent henceforth, and the deception would pass for all time. Verily Mayfield's triumph was likely to be a very short one, and . . . Somebody was speaking to Ralph: Mary, with her hair over her shoulders, and a candle in her hand. Her face was cold and set, her eyes filled with stern displeasure. "Thief in the night," she said. "What is the meaning of this, Mr. Darnley?" CHAPTER VII. THE ONLY WAY A sense of blinding, unreasonable anger held Ralph for the moment. He was doing nothing wrong. He was acting entirely for the best, and here he was taken under the most shameful conditions--a miserable, degraded thief in the night. From the coldness of Mary's voice, from the scorn in her eyes, he could read the reflection of her thoughts. And yet he was acting from the highest and most honourable motives. Surely no man was ever impelled by a loftier idea of self-sacrifice. "I ask what you are doing," Mary repeated. "Do not tax my patience too far." There was no mistaking the menace in those clear-cut tones. Thus would the daughter of the house of Dashwood address a burglar or other midnight intruder. Ralph felt that she would have been not in the least afraid to face a felon of that type; his face tingled as he felt himself set down in the same category. He cudgelled his brains for some plausible explanation which should be anything but the right one. The edge of the failing moon still left a shaft of pallid light shining through the great stained glass window; it flung into high relief the arms and motto of the family of Dashwood. And those arms and that motto belonged to the man who stood there with the shamefaced air of a boy caught in a fault. "I am still waiting for you to speak," Mary went on. "It is possible that there may be some explanation of this amazing conduct of yours." The cold, proud voice seemed to doubt it all the same. And yet one word would have swept all the clouds of suspicion away. Ralph knew that it lay in his power to bring that white, haughty figure to her knees; one inkling of the truth and the whole situation was changed. For all this belonged to Ralph; Mary was no more than an honoured guest in the house. Yes, it all belonged to him, the grand old house, the matchless pictures, the furniture from the time of Elizabeth, the great sweeps of upland country, and the farms lying snug under their red roofs.