‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. “It couldn’t be. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. She said there was no other way to get them to stop their constant screaming. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed. Now it occurred to him that to show her the sealed letter would be a better way.
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