it was refused, and the
doorkeeper would not even consent to take a message in. Mr. Oldham, he
said, was being straitly kept, and it would be as much as his place was
worth to admit any communication to him without an order from the
Council.

When Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, he found an
imploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one of the grooms from the
Hall to take his answer back.

"Write back at once, dear Anthony," she wrote, "and explain this terrible
thing, for I know well that you could not do what has been told us of
you. But tell us what has happened, that we may know what to think. Poor
Lady Maxwell is in the distress you may imagine; not knowing what will
come to Mr. James. She will come to London, I think, this week. Write at
once now, my Anthony, and tell us all."

Anthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been deceived; and
asking her to explain the circumstances to Lady Maxwell, who no doubt
would communicate them to her son as soon as was possible; he added that
he had so far failed to get a message through the gaoler. He gave the
note himself to the groom; telling him to deliver it straight into
Isabel's hands, and then went to bed.

In the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken place.

"I feared it would be so," Grindal said. "There is nothing to be done but
to commit your friend into God's hands, and leave him there."

"My Lord," said Anthony, "I cannot leave it like that. I will go and see
my lord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing to help, I will
even see the Queen's Grace herself."

Grindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay.

"That will ruin all," he said. "An officer of mine could do nothing but
anger her Grace."

"I must do my best," said Anthony; "it was through my folly he is in
prison, and I could never rest if I left one single thing undone."

Just as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal livery
dashed up to the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony to call him
back. The man delivered to him a letter which he opened then and there.
It was from Mistress Corbet.

"What can be done," the letter ran, "for poor Mr. James? I have heard a
tale of you from a Catholic, which I know is a black lie. I am sure that
even now you will be doing all you can to save your friend. I told the
man that told me, that he lied and that I knew you for an honest
gentleman. But come, dear Mr. Anthony; and we will