I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room. The Jew did not speak, but pointed to the audience-chamber. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. We’d soon cool that temper of yours.
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