‘Say rather so hurt and shocked, Margaret,’ he answered gravely. ‘It was surely only natural that I should be shocked at finding the girl I loved so distrustful of me.’ ‘I was wrong, oh, very, very wrong; and yet,’ she pleaded, ‘I erred through love of you, Willie. If I had not cared for you so much—so very much—I should not have been so unreasonable.’ ‘You mean so wild with jealousy,’ he replied smiling. ‘However, it’s all over now,’ and he held out his hand for the letter which she still retained. ‘Please to read it to me,’ she said; ‘a few words will do.’ His face grew pale again, as she thought with anger. ‘Why so?’ he replied. ‘Are you not satisfied even now?’ ‘Yes, yes; it was foolish of me, I know, but I said “So help me Heaven.”’ ‘Oh, I see. For your oath’s sake. That is what Herod said to the daughter of Herodias. It is not a good example to follow.’ He spoke stiffly, but she shook her head. ‘I only ask for a few words, Willie.’ ‘But Talbot writes to me in confidence; about matters that only affect him and me. There is not a word that concerns you in it.’ Still she shook her head. The girl was truth itself, not only in the spirit but in the letter. She had sworn not to speak with him unless he did a certain thing, and though the reason for his doing so no longer existed, her oath remained. Her stubbornness evidently annoyed him. Their parts in the little drama had as it were become reversed. The wrongdoer had become the injured person, and _vice versâ_. ‘The facts are these,’ he said slowly. ‘Talbot and I, as you know, have a secret in common. He is the only person save myself, who has seen my patron. What he writes of him and his concerns—that is of the manuscripts—we do not wish others to see. We have therefore hit upon a device to keep our communications secret.’ He took out of the drawer a piece of cardboard exactly the shape and size of ordinary letter-paper, full of large holes neatly cut at unequal distances. He placed it on blank paper, and through the interstices wrote these words: ‘Margaret has done you the honour to take your finnikin hand-writing for that of Mrs. Jordan.’ Then he took off the cardboard and filled in the spaces with a number of inconsequent words, so that the whole communication became meaningless. ‘Talbot has another piece of cardboard exactly similar to this,’ he continued, ‘and has only to place it over this rubbish for my meaning to become apparent.’ ‘It is very ingenious,’ said Margaret. It was the highest praise she could afford. Such arts were distasteful to her. They seemed to suggest a natural turn for deception, and she secretly hoped that the invention lay at Talbot’s door. ‘Yes, I think the plan does me some credit,’ said William Henry complacently. ‘Well, I have only to lay the cardboard over this letter that so excited your indignation, to get at the writer’s meaning.’