Three weeks ago you
told me it was not so; I pray God that may be true still. I know that
you would not lift a finger against him yourself--" (Ralph glanced at
his own neat little list at these words, and bit his pen)--"but I wish
you to do what you can for him and for us all." Then followed an
erasure.

Ralph carried the paper to the window, flattened it against the panes
and read clearly the words, "If my" under the scratching lines, and
smiled to himself as he guessed what the sentence was that she was
beginning.

Then the letter continued.

"I hear on good authority that there is something against him. He will
not escape; and will do nothing on such hearsay, but only tells us to
trust God, and laughs at us all. Good Mr. Torridon, do what you can.
Your loving friend, B.A."

Ralph went back from the window where he was still standing, and sat
down again, bending his head into his hands. He had no sort of scruples
against lying as such or betraying Mr. More's private conversation; his
whole training was directed against such foolishness, and he had learnt
at last from Cromwell's incessant precept and example that the good of
the State over-rode all private interests. But he had a disinclination
to lie to Beatrice; and he felt simply unable to lose her friendship by
telling her the truth.

As he sat there perfectly still, the servant peeped in once softly to
see if the answer was ready, and noiselessly withdrew. Ralph did not
stir; but still sat on, pressing his eyeballs till they ached and fiery
rings twisted before him in the darkness. Then he abruptly sat up,
blinked a moment or two, took up a pen, bit it again, and laid it down
and sat eyeing the two papers that lay side by side on his desk.

He took up his own list, and read it through. After all, it was very
insignificant, and contained no more than minute scraps of conversation
that Sir Thomas More had let drop. He had called Queen Katharine "poor
woman" three or four times; had expressed a reverence for the Pope of
Rome half a dozen times, and had once called him the Vicar of Christ. He
had been silent when someone had mentioned Anne Boleyn's name; he had
praised the Carthusians and the Religious Life generally, at some
length.

They were the kind of remarks that might mean nothing or a great deal;
they were consistent with loyalty; they were not inconsistent with
treason; in fact they were exactly the kind of material out of which
serious accusations