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 ambition, but by the continued esteem with which I still regard yourself. I do not love him; and my own wish, my duty, my own honor, my loyalty to England all acclaim that he should be delivered at once to those in authority. And yet I have refrained—for you, Doris. But I have learned that H is in communication with G and that Crenshaw of Scotland Yard is on the alert. I may not be able to save him.

This is an appeal to the one person who has the most influence with him and I ask that you use whatever power over him you possess to bring him to a sense of the impossibility of his mad plans. If you still have doubt as to the character of the work he has undertaken, I ask that you go to Ben-a-Chielt tonight and listen secretly to convincing proof of what he is. For tonight at one o’clock on the cliffs near the old Viking’s Tower, he will meet a personal messenger from G.

I appeal to you for England—but more than for England, for—yourself. Yours, J. R.

Doris read the note through again and again, her thoughts blurring unpleasantly, like a photograph out of focus. It seemed impossible that she could do what he asked of her. Every instinct, wounded and sore from her last encounter, revolted at the thought of meeting Cyril again under the conditions presented. It was impossible that she should go. Cyril would only laugh at her or, what would be worse, show her the callousness and brutality that he had done this morning. Rizzio asked her to do what she could. Why should she save him? What had he done to merit such a sacrifice of pride on her part. The past?