hundred
yards away.

At last Ralph sat down; still holding the papers. He must clear his
brain; and how was that possible with the images flashing through it in
endless and vivid succession? For a while he could not steady himself;
the shock was bewildering; he could think of nothing but the appalling
drama. Essex was fallen!

Then little by little the muddy current of thought began to run clear.
He began to understand what lay before him; and the question that still
awaited decision.

His first instinct had been to dash the papers on to the fire and grind
them into the red heart of the wood; but something had checked him. Very
slowly he began to analyse that instinct.

First, was it not useless? He knew he did not possess one hundredth part
of the incriminating evidence that was in existence. Of what service
would it be to his master to destroy that one small bundle?

Next, what would be the result to himself if he did? It was known that
he was a trusted agent of the minister's; his house would be searched;
papers would be found; it would be certainly known that he had made away
with evidence. There would be records of what he had, in the other
houses. And what then?

On the other hand if he willingly gave up all that was in his
possession, it would go far to free him from complicity.

Lastly, like a venomous snake lifting its head, his own private
resentment looked him in the eyes, and there was a new sting added to it
now. He had lost all, he knew well enough; wealth, honour and position
had in a moment shrunk to cinders with Cromwell's fall, and for these
cinders he had lost Beatrice too. He had sacrificed her to his master;
and his master had failed him. A kind of fury succeeded to his dismay.

Oh, would it not be sweet to add even one more stone to the mass that
was tottering over the head of that mighty bully, that had promised and
not performed?

He blinked his eyes, shocked by the horror of the thought, and gripped
the bundle yet more firmly. The memories of a thousand kindnesses
received from his master cried at the door of his heart. The sweat
dropped from his forehead; he lifted a stiff hand to wipe it away, and
dropped it again into its grip on the papers.

Then he slowly recapitulated to himself the reasons for not destroying
them. They were overwhelming, convincing! What was there to set against
them? One slender instinct only, that cried shrill and thin that in
honour he must burn that damn