writing
seemeth familiar to mine eyes."

"'Tis a piece of my lady's jesting," said the girl, after a glance at
the parchment. "'Twas written in imitation of Master Fitzwalter's hand
after we had searched his house last year. Ah, poor man, who would have
then imagined so hard a fate for him?" She sighed prodigiously, and
rolled her eyes.

"Tell me the story of this murder, mistress, I pray you."

She was not loth to fall a-chattering, and she told Scarlett all she
knew of it. From the rambling history he discovered another strange
fact, that Roger de Burgh had been cook in the Sheriff's household
before he had gone to the Fitzwalter house. Slowly he began to see that
the letter he had so blithely put into Marian's hand was a forgery, done
by the clever fingers of the demoiselle Marie.

"So," thought he, swiftly, "Mistress Fitzwalter was persuaded to return
to this place in order that Robin Hood might visit her secretly. The
house was watched by a spy from the Sheriff's own kitchen. Soon as Robin
came, this spy was to give warning; or, if matters pressed, kill him.
But after many months of waiting, _Fitzwalter_ came instead."

His quick mind, used to the intrigues and plots of a capricious Court,
had unravelled the mystery. Yet how could he act upon this knowledge in
the midst of the enemy's camp? If the Sheriff could stoop already to
such foul business as this, to what further lengths would he not go?
Dismissing himself through the girl, Scarlett strode out of the castle.
The air seemed fresher and more wholesome without. He enquired and found
his way to the house of grief, and there asked audience with its little
heart-broken mistress.

* * * * *

Whilst Scarlett was plotting and inventing a hundred schemes to save
Little John, a poor wandering priest appeared one evening before the
gates of Nottingham Castle. Most humbly he begged a little bread and a
drink of water; and, having received these, he blessed the place and all
within it.

"You should not bless _all_ within this castle, Sir Priest," the
Sheriff told him. Monceux had pompously administered to the man's simple
wants with his own hands. "There is a villain in our cells who hath done
wicked murder."

The ragged friar asked who that might be; and when he had heard, said
that at the least he would confess this poor misguided fellow and so
deliver his soul from everlasting punishment.

The Sheriff was rather doubtful, b