It was as if he held him in a grip of iron intention from which no struggles, however desperate, could set him free.
He took an envelope from the folds of his ragged raiment.

"I believe you have heard me speak of my brother Bernard," he said, "chaplain of Charthurst Prison." Dacre nodded.

"The fellow who writes to you every month.

Well?
What of him ?" Monck's steady fingers detached and unfolded a letter.

"You had better read for yourself," he said, and held it out.
But curiously Dacre hung back as if unwilling to touch it.
"Can't you tell me what all the fuss is about ?" he said irritably.
Monck's hand remained inflexibly extended.