John, coming down stairs empty-handed, met the gaze of a face looking at him, which he thought at first was that of the arch enemy of mankind.
"Where has your mistress gone, my man?"
"To her room, your honor."
"Have you been meddling with the pockets of this coat?"
"No, indeed, sir; I hope you'll believe me, sir. I just had but hung it up when I was sent with a lamp to the upper hall. Please ask Miss Walsingham if it wasn't so, yer honor."
"Then, by Heaven! I've been robbed!"
He turned on his heel, and carried his livid face into the library, as spotted as if he had been smitten with a white plague, rummaged without ceremony until he had got himself pen, and ink, and paper, and wrote a billet-doux to his lady-love.
Five minutes after Margaret's whirlwind rush to her room, there came a knocking at the door.
"Who is it?"
"It's me. Miss Margaret, dear."