"Call?" he said.

"Yes, I heard you. I was in my room at my aunt's house--ah! a couple of
hours ago. You called me twice. 'Beatrice! Beatrice!' Then--then they
told me what had happened about my Lord Essex."

"I called you?" repeated Ralph.

"Yes--you called me. Your voice was quite close to me, at my ear; I
thought you were in the room. Tell me what it is."

She loosened her hold of her mantle as she stood there by the table; and
it dropped open, showing a sparkle of jewels at her throat. She threw
back her hood, and it dropped on to her shoulders, leaving visible the
coiled masses of her black hair set with knots of ribbon.

"I did not call," said Ralph dully. "I do not know what you mean,
Mistress Atherton."

She made a little impatient gesture.

"Ah! yes," she said, "it is something. Tell me quickly. I suppose it has
to do with my Lord. What is it?"

"It is nothing," said Ralph again.

They stood looking at one another in silence. Beatrice's eyes ran a
moment up and down his rich dress, the papers in his hands, then
wandered to the heaped floor, the table, and returned to the papers in
his hands.

"You must tell me," she said. "What is that you are holding?"

An angry terror seized Ralph.

"That is my affair, Mistress Atherton. What is your business with me?"

She came a step nearer, and leant her left hand on his table. He could
see those steady eyes on his face; she looked terribly strong and
controlled.

"Indeed you must tell me, Mr. Torridon. I am come here to do something.
I do not know what. What are those papers?"

He turned and dropped them on to the chair behind him.

"I tell you again, I do not know what you mean."

"It is useless," she said. "Have they been to you yet? What do you mean
to do about my Lord? You know he is in the Tower?"

"I suppose so," said Ralph, "but my counsel is my own."

"Mr. Torridon, let us have an end of this. I know well that you must
have many secrets against my lord--"

"I tell you that what I know is nothing. I have not a hundredth part of
his papers."

He felt himself desperate and bewildered, like a man being pushed to the
edge of a precipice, step by step. But those black eyes held and
compelled him on. He scarcely knew what he was saying.

"And are these papers all his? What have you been doing with them?"

"My Lord told me to sort them."

The words were drawn out against his own will.

"And those in your hand--on the chair. What are they?"