"I cannot do that." He shook his head. "That would be betraying a woman's secret. I do not know who it is, and I must not let you know, for that would not be honourable."
"You are right," she said, after a pause. "You always are. Burn it."
He pushed the point of a steel erasing-knife through the piece of folded paper and held it over the flame. It turned brown, crackled and burst into a little blaze, and in a moment the black ashes fell fluttering to the table.
"What do you suppose it was?" asked Dolores innocently, as Don John brushed the ashes away.
"Dear--it is very ridiculous--I am ashamed of it, and I do not quite know how to explain it to you." Again he blushed a little. "It seems strange to speak of it--I never even told my mother. At first I used to open them, but now I generally burn them like this one."
"Generally! Do you mean to say that you often find women's letters with flowers in them on your table?"
"I find them everywhere," answered Don John, with perfect simplicity. "I have found them in my gloves, tied into the basket hilt of my sword--often they are brought to me like ordinary letters by a messenger who waits for an answer. Once I found one on my pillow!"
"But"--Dolores hesitated--"but are they--are they all from the same person?" she asked timidly. Don John laughed, and shook his head.
"She would need to be a very persistent and industrious person," he answered. "Do you not understand?"
"No. Who are these women who persecute you with their writing? And why do they write to you? Do they want you to help them?"