One of the maids, a plump, roguish, lazy wench, would only carry her basket so far as the hearth of the hall. A fire was there, why not use it? Also she could ogle and throw sidelong looks at Master Scarlett, who, for his beard and thirty-five grave years, was none so bad a man.
This girl was throwing into the open hearth a lot of ends of silk and combings from her mistress's room. She tossed the rubbish on the fire, at the same time eyeing Master Scarlett. Then, finding that he would not notice her, she poutingly returned with her basket upon a fresh journey.
Scarlett came over to the fire to pick up some of the burning scraps. They were drifting over the hearth into the room dangerously, thanks to the maid's carelessness.
He found in his hand a half-burned piece of parchment, which still fizzled and crackled in quaint malicious fashion.
Upon the parchment was an awkward writing, and some of the words showed up very black under the heat. Half idly, Scarlett tried to make sense of them:
"This ... dear child Marian, ... her affectionate father ... Court of ... in London town."
So far did Master Scarlett read before suddenly the beginnings of the truth flashed upon him. This was the very letter which he had borne to Marian.
How had it come into the castle? By what strange magic? Could Marian have carried it here herself?
He remembered that she had given it to Robin, and that he had put it into his bosom.
"Mistress, you seem indeed to be very busy this day," said Master Scarlett, affably, to the girl next time she appeared. "Do you prepare me a chamber, for it seems that I am to wait here for a week at least."