to both of us? Six
words from me will make you answer all my questions."

"You can't say six words, nor sixty, Mr. Gridley, that will make me
answer one question I do not choose to. I defy you!"

"I will not say one, Miss Cynthia Badlam. There are some things one does
not like to speak in words. But I will show you a scrap of paper,
containing just six words and a date; not one word more nor one less.
You shall read them. Then I will burn the paper in the flame of your
lamp. As soon after that as you feel ready, I will ask the same question
again."

Master Gridley took out from his pocket-book a scrap of paper, and handed
it to Cynthia Badlam. Her hand shook as she received it, for she was
frightened as well as enraged, and she saw that Mr. Gridley was in
earnest and knew what he was doing.

She read the six words, he looking at her steadily all the time, and
watching her as if he had just given her a drop of prussic acid.

No cry. No sound from her lips. She stared as if half stunned for one
moment, then turned her head and glared at Mr. Gridley as if she would
have murdered him if she dared. In another instant her face whitened,
the scrap of paper fluttered to the floor, and she would have followed it
but for the support of both Mr. Gridley's arms. He disengaged one of
them presently, and felt in his pocket for the sal volatile. It served
him excellently well, and stung her back again to her senses very
quickly. All her defiant aspect had gone.

"Look!" he said, as he lighted the scrap of paper in the flame. "You
understand me, and you see that I must be answered the next time I ask my
question."

She opened her lips as if to speak. It was as when a bell is rung in a
vacuum,--no words came from them,--only a faint gasping sound, an effort
at speech. She was caught tight in the heart-screw.

"Don't hurry yourself, Miss Cynthia," he said, with a certain relenting
tenderness of manner. "Here, take another sniff of the smelling-salts.
Be calm, be quiet,--I am well disposed towards you,--I don't like to give
you trouble. There, now, I must have the answer to that question; but
take your time, take your time."

"Give me some water,--some water!" she said, in a strange hoarse whisper.
There was a pitcher of water and a tumbler on an old marble sideboard
near by. He filled the tumbler, and Cynthia emptied it as if she had
just been taken from the rack, and could have swallowed a bucketful.

"Wha