"Oh, Mrs. Chetwode! what is it."
"A letter from the colonel, Miss Margaret."
"Push it under the door."
"Dear me, it won't go."
"Make it go."
Presently a slip of white appeared, caught on the edge of the carpet. She seized and pulled it through.
It had got rid of its envelope in the rough transit, and came followed by fluttering rags, held together by a great wax seal, like a scarlet beacon of danger.
Still kneeling, she read it, fiercely bit her lip, and pondered.
"I give five minutes to retract your mistake. A few pencil-scrawls are not worth a life. Only five minutes, my dear Miss Walsingham."
"If I yielded, would I be safer than if I was obstinate?" she thought, crushing the scraps in her hand. "No, what are his assurances? Lies to lull me to sleep. Let me drive my foe to open enmity—let me goad him to his ruin, or mine, if God so forgets me, but I will never give up this evidence of his guilt." She held aloft, with wild triumph, the green note-book. "Do your worst to Margaret Walsingham, you monster, but you will not get St. Udo's right out of her faithful hands. My five minutes of grace are slipping away, and I am going to defy him. I will pray Heaven to protect me, and—I will do my duty."