“Who be I to write to?” said Giles, with the stern air of the male mind controlling the female one, as it would wander from the point. Again Margery whispered, not for fear of listeners, but to give the allurement of mystery to her purpose: “To the Lady Lochore,” said she. The pen dropped from Giles’ fingers, making a great blot at the top of the sheet, which Margery, with clacking tongue, deftly mopped up with a corner of her apron. Consternation and awe wrote themselves on the butler’s face. Faithless old ingrate as he was, robbing with remorseless system the hand that fed him, something of family spirit, some sense of clanship, still existed in his muddled mind. Enough of their master’s secrets had filtered to the household for everyone to know that his only sister had wedded the man who, under the pretending cloak of friendship, had done him mortal injury; and that from the moment she had thus given herself to his enemy, the lord of Bindon had cut her off from his life. But there were things beside, which old Giles alone knew; which he had kept to himself, even after his long devotion to the Bindon cellars had wreaked havoc upon the intelligence of his conscience. It was but ten years back when a mounted messenger had brought the tidings to Sir David of the birth of an heir to the house of Lochore: heir also, as matters now stood, to the childless house of Bindon. Giles had conducted this messenger to Sir David’s presence. Giles had stood by and watched his master’s pale face grow death livid as he listened to the envoy’s tale, had seen him recoil from even the touch of his kinsman’s letter. It was Giles who had received the curt instructions: “Take the messenger away, give him food, rest and drink, and let him ride and bear back to Lord Lochore that letter he has sent me.” And now old Giles looked up into Margery’s inscrutable face, and cried with echoes of forgotten loyalty in his husky voice: “Write to Miss Maud?—to my Lady, I mean. Nay, nay, Mrs. Nutmeg, I’ll not do that!” “Ah,” said Mrs. Nutmeg. She had been standing over his shoulder, showing more eagerness than her wont, and licking her lips over the words she was about to dictate to him, while a light shone in her eyes that was never kindled so long as she was under observation. At the check of his words the old sleek change came over her. The curtain of impassiveness fell over her countenance. The gleam went out in her eyes. She came quietly round, sat down, opposite him and, folding her hands, let them rest on the table before her. “Ah,” said she, “it do go again the grain, don’t it, Mr. Giles? And if it was not for Sir David——”