How long Margaret sat alone in the library she could not tell—an ominous foretaste of the grim future had shrouded her soul, and the dark hours passed unheeded by. When she roused herself, it was to instant action.
She sat down before her desk and began to write a letter—her third appeal for help.
She wrote but one passionate sentence, then her head sank between her hands.
"Who knows whether I shall live until it could be answered?" she moaned.
Bethinking herself, she tore the sheet and cast it into the heart of the fire, and took a new sheet; dashed off again but one sentence, signed her name, thrust it into an envelope, hurriedly sealing it, as if she feared her mind might change at any moment.
It was a telegram and ran thus:
"Lady Juliana Ducie:—Come at once to Castle Brand on a matter of life and death.
"Margaret Walsingham."
Then she dressed herself and drove down to Regis in the carriage, clutching the dispatch in her hand, and drawing back from view whenever she passed a wayfarer, trembling lest her enemy should detect her in this move against his safety.
After an hour of feverish impatience, an answer came which satisfied her.
"I will come to-morrow night.
"Lady J. Ducie."