I, who am his fettered slave, know this. Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my dear guardian, Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest: better that you were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of this miscreant.

Your pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions; you have assaulted him in his own house: you are ruined if you stay. Go — do not hesitate. If you lack money, take this purse, I beg of you, and bribe the servants to let you pass. Oh, be warned, poor soul, and escape while you may.”

Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood before her.

“Grant me one thing,” he said. “Let your eyes rest upon mine, so that I may see if they be steady. There — now answer me. Am I Miles Hendon?”