“Stay where you are, then,” said the girl in a low resolute tone. Rizzio straightened. Doris still bent over the fire. “Give it to me,” he said again. “No. England’s secrets shall be safe.” “Don’t you understand?” he whispered wildly. “I’ve got to prove that they are.” “I can prove that as well as you----” “But you won’t. Hammersley is----” He paused and both of them straightened, listening. Outside in the hall there was a commotion and a familiar voice as the Honorable Cyril, his face and fur coat spattered with mud, came into the room. CHAPTER VII AN INTRUDER He looked from one to the other with a quickly appraising eye. The girl was fingering the lace of her bodice. Rizzio had turned toward the newcomer recovering his poise. “Hope I’m not intrudin’,” said Hammersley, with a laugh. “Well, hardly. You’ve come in a hurry.” “Yes,” drawled Hammersley. “I missed your train, I think. Too bad. Jolly slow work travelin’ alone. Stryker picked me up at Edinburgh and we came on by motor.” He took off his fur coat in leisurely fashion and crossing to the fireplace took Doris’s proffered hand. “You had my note?” he asked carelessly. The girl nodded. “I was glad,” she said. “Well, I’m here. Jolly happy, too. Had a narrow squeak of it, though. Some bally idiot stretched rope across the road over by Saltham Rocks, but we saw it in time, and went around. Fired a few shots at us, too. Must have taken me for Rizzio. What?” he laughed. Thus directly appealed to, Rizzio smiled grudgingly. “You don’t ask me to believe that story, Hammersley,” he said dryly. “You don’t have to, Rizzio.” The girl’s look was fixed on Hammersley’s face. Suddenly she broke in with a voice of alarm. “Cyril--you’re hurt--and there’s blood on your coat----” “Is there? By Jove, so there is--it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t mind a peg though--and a cigarette.” Doris had started for the door in alarm. “Wait!” Hammersley’s voice came sharply. And as she paused, “Ring, Doris.” She understood and touched the button beside the door. “We might as well have an understanding before they come, Rizzio,” put in Hammersley quickly. “Do you prefer to believe my story--or would you like to invent one of your own?” Rizzio shrugged. “As you please,” he said. “It seems that I am _de trop_ here.” At the door he paused and finished distinctly. “I hope that your explanations will prove satisfactory.” Doris had helped Cyril off with his coat and by the time the maid brought Betty Heathcote, had cut away the sleeve of his shirt with Cyril’s pocket knife. It was merely a gash across the upper arm, which a bandage and some old-fashioned remedies would set right. Lady Heathcote heard the story (from which Hammersley eliminated the rope) with amazement, and was for sending at once for the local constabulary.