“A plot to disclose,” she added, with sharp impatience. “What is it?”
“You shall hear,” he began, in gloomy desperation, without the faintest knowledge of how he should 141 finish. “I—ah—it is this—” His wandering glance fell on the table and the writing materials she had left there. “I wish to write a letter—a last letter—to a friend.” The vague general outline of a project arose in his mind.
Elizabeth was inclined to be as laconic as implacable. “Write it,” said she. “There are pen and ink.”
“But I can’t write in this position,” said Peyton, quickly, lest she might leave the room. “I fear I can’t even hold a pen. Will you not write for me?”
“I? Secretary to a horse-thieving rebel!”
“It is a last request, madam. A last request is sacred,—even an enemy’s.”
“I will send in some one to write for you.” And she turned to go.
“But this letter will contain secrets.”
“Secrets?” The very word is a charm to a woman. Elizabeth’s curiosity was touched but slightly, yet sufficiently to stay her steps for the moment.
“Ay,” said Peyton, lowering his tone and speaking quickly, “secrets not for every ear. Secrets of the heart, madam,—secrets so delicate that, to convey them truly, I need the aid of more than common tact and understanding.”