to discover any trace of origin: then leaned back in his
chair, and thoughtfully stroked his moustache.

"Pray you, be seated, my Lord. Whence had you this?"

Lord Monteagle gave such details as he knew.

"You have no guess from whom it could come?"

"Never a whit."

"Nor you know not the writing?"

"It resembleth none hand of any that I know."

There was another short pause, broken by Lord Monteagle's query, "Thinks
your Lordship this of any moment?"

"That were not easy to answer. It may be of serious import; or it may
be but a foolish jest."

"Truly, at first I thought it the latter; for how could the danger be
past as soon as the letter were burnt?"

"Ah, that might be but--My Lord, I pray you leave this letter with me.
I will consider of it, and if I see cause, may lay it before the King.
Any way, you have well done to bring it hither. If it be a foolish
jest, there is but a lost half-hour: and if, as might be, it is an
honest warning of some real peril that threatens us, you will then have
merited well of your King and country. I may tell you that I have
already received divers advices from beyond seas to the same effect."

"I thank your Lordship heartily, and I commend you to God." So saying,
Lord Monteagle took his leave.

The Sunday passed peacefully. Thomas Winter, in his chamber at the sign
of the Duck, laid down a volume of the writings of Thomas Aquinas, and
began to think about going to bed; when a hasty rap on the door, and the
sound of some one being let in, was succeeded by rapid steps on the
stairs. The next moment, Thomas Ward entered the room.

"What is the matter?" said Winter, the moment he saw his face.

"The saints wot! A warning letter is sent to my Lord Monteagle, and
whereto it may grow--Hie you to White Webbs when morning breaketh, with
all the speed you may, and tell Mr Catesby of this. I fear--I very
much fear all shall be discovered."

"It's that rascal Tresham!" cried Winter. "He was earnest to have his
sister's husband warned, and said he would not pluck forth not another
stiver without our promise so to do."

"Be it who it may, it may be the ruin of us."

"God forbid! I will be at White Webbs with the dawn, or soon after."

Before it was light the next morning Winter was on horseback, and was
soon galloping through the country villages of Islington, Holloway, and
Hornsey, on his way to Enfield Chase. In the depths of that lonely
forest land stood the so