As he stood up again he heard the knocker rap on his street-door.  For a moment he had an instinct to run to the window and see who was there; but he put it aside; there was scarcely time to hide the ashes; and it was best too to give no hint of anxiety.  He lifted the package of burnt papers once more, and stood hesitating; a press would be worse than useless as a hiding-place; all such would of course be searched.  Then a thought struck him; he stood up noiselessly on his chair.  The Holbein portrait of Cromwell in his furred gown and chain leaned forward from the tapestry over the mantelpiece.  Ralph set one hand against the wall at the side; and then tenderly let the package fall behind the portrait.  As he did so the painted and living eyes were on a level; it seemed strange to him that the faces were so near together at that moment; and it struck him with a grim irony that the master should be so protecting the servant under these circumstances.

Then he dropped lightly to the ground, and sat quickly in the chair, snatching up the bundle of papers from the table as he did so.

The steps were on the landing now; he heard the crack of the balustrade; but it seemed they were coming very quietly.

There was a moment’s silence; the muscles of his throat contracted sharply, then there came the servant’s tap; the handle was turned.

Ralph stood up quickly, still holding the papers, as the door opened, and Beatrice stepped forward into the room.  The door shut noiselessly behind her.

* * * * *

She stood there, with the firelight playing on her dark loose-sleeved mantle, the hood that surrounded her head, her pale face a little flushed, and her black steady eyes.  Her breath came quickly between her parted lips.

Ralph stared at her, dazed by the shock, still gripping the bundle of papers.  She moved forward a step; and the spell snapped.

“Mistress Beatrice,” he said.

“I have come,” she said; “what is it?  You want me?”

She came round the table, with an air of eager expectancy.

“I—­I did not know,” said Ralph.

“But you wanted me.  What is the matter?  I heard you call.”

Ralph stared again, bewildered.

“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.