plan to Bagshaw."

The old man did not answer for a moment.

"Reynolds, have you seen Dacre?"

The question was sudden. "Does--does not your lordship know--" he
faltered. Geoffrey sprang from his chair.

"They shot him."

Geoffrey sank back to his seat. The old servant walked to the window,
pulling out his handkerchief. Outside was heard the measured step of the
turnkey pacing to and fro.

"Reynolds, will you carry a letter for me?" said Geoffrey at last.
"Think before you answer. You are no longer in my service, you know. I
can no longer pay you."

"I am always in the earl's service," Reynolds interrupted.

"Thank you, Reynolds. The letter is to Mrs. Oswald Carey. You remember
her?"

Reynolds started. "Forgive me, earl--but does your--your honor know--"
The old man spoke in much trouble; Geoffrey looked up in amazement.

"Oh, forgive me, Earl Brompton--but--I once told a lie to you. That
night--you remember that night when Sir John met your lordship in his
room, and I said afterward there had been no one there?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey. "What then?"

"There was some one there. A lady was there. Mrs. Carey."

A terrible light broke upon Geoffrey. It was she that had taken the
paper; it was she that was the traitor who had been the cause of Dacre's
death. And his old love for her had killed his friend.

"There is no one left"--the words broke from his lips with a sob--"no
one but you, Reynolds." He groaned aloud with rage and sorrow as he saw
the part this woman had played. She had come between him and the girl he
loved; she had betrayed the loyal cause; she had struck down Dacre, with
her lying lips, her lovely eyes. And he had almost loved her.

"I have a message for your honor." Reynolds spoke humbly, timidly, as if
his master blamed him. "The young American lady--Miss Windsor--before
they went away, she desired me to write to her."

Geoffrey looked up, as if a ray of light had entered the prison window.
"Wait," he said, simply. The old man stood at the window, while Geoffrey
drew a chair to the table, sat down, and tried to write. Many a letter
was begun, half finished, and then torn into fragments. When at last a
note was done and sealed, Geoffrey turned to Reynolds.

"You will send it to her?"

"I will take it to her in America," said the old man; and he hastily
thrust the note into the breast of his coat, as the turnkey entered.
Geoffrey thrust one of the gold pieces into the jailer's hand as h