"But what is it? What mean you?" they cried in amaze.
His hand shook with eagerness as he held out his prize. 'Twas a small letter-case in green silk, richly embroidered in gold; a maze of scrolls, in the centre of which were the letters J. M. entwined beneath a coronet sewn with pearls. Barbara looked at it in doubt; what might be there to cause such desperate eagerness.
"J. M.," she questioned. "That is——"
"James, Duke of Monmouth, madame, who else? And were there a doubt, the contents dispel it."
"The contents?"
"Aye. I have already searched it. It contains five letters, so precious, madame, that it would seem he bore them ever about his person. How they came here is a mystery; he must have lost them in the hurry of his flight. 'Twas indeed irony of fate that he should lose them just in the time of need."
"But what are these letters?" interrupted Ralph impatiently.
"Three are from Lady—from a woman."
"You did not read them!" interposed Barbara quickly.
"Nay, madame, they are sacred. We will leave them to the grave Nature herself has prepared."