When Baillie arrived Ridolfi told him of the letters which were to be taken to England.

“I know,” he said, “that you have ever been a good friend of the Queen of Scots, and it is for this reason that I assign to you this dangerous task. The letters are in cipher which I will explain to you, for if it were necessary to destroy them you could then convey their contents by word of mouth. There have been many attempts to rescue the Queen, and they have all resulted in failure. This will be different, for behind this plan is the Pope himself with the King of Spain. It is their duty and purpose to remove Elizabeth from the English throne and put Mary there. They cannot fail. But first Elizabeth must be assassinated; and, as soon as this has been achieved, Alva will cross the Channel with a strong force to join the English Catholics. This is the gist of what lies in these letters; so you see, my friend, in carrying them into Elizabeth’s country you face mortal danger.”

“I will do it willingly for the sake of Queen Mary and the Catholic cause,” Baillie answered.

“That is what I believed. Here are the letters.”

Baillie took them and set out for England.

When he left the ship at Dover, he did not notice four men who were loitering near the harbor. Relieved that he was on dry land again he was blithely making his way toward an inn where he proposed to spend the night before beginning his journey to London, when he was aware of being followed; and as he turned the four men drew level with him; in a second there was one on either side of him, one behind and the fourth had stepped in front of him.

His heart began to beat faster with fear. Cutpurses! And four of them. It was not so much that he feared to be robbed of his money; there were other things he carried far more precious than that.

“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he asked.

The man who stood in front of him said quietly, “You are Charles Baillie, recently come from the Continent?”

“That is so,” he answered. “I repeat: What do you want of me?”

“You are our prisoner, Charles Baillie.”

“On what grounds?”

“On suspicion of treason. We arrest you in the name of our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.”

“I do not understand.”

“Understanding will come later,” answered the leader of the men; he gave a sign and a man whom Baillie had not previously noticed came up with horses.

Baillie was told to mount and he could do nothing but obey. A leading rein was attached to his horse’s bridle and firmly holding this one of the four mounted his own horse.

“Let us go,” he said.

Thus they brought Charles Baillie to the Marshalsea prison.

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM was watchful. Documents discovered in Dumbarton had alarmed him, Cecil, the Queen and all those who understood the gravity of the occasion. It was certain that the Queen of Scots was to be used as a symbol by their Catholic enemies; and when such included the Pope and the King of Spain the situation was without doubt highly dangerous. No petty rising this. Walsingham, proud of the spy system he had built up, rejoiced in an opportunity to prove its worth.

Thus he was determined to have all suspicious characters brought up for examination. It was for this reason that Charles Baillie had been arrested on his return from the Continent.

On the table before him lay letters and, because they were in cipher, they seemed sinister indeed. How to translate them? That was the question. There was a possibility that the messenger, who was an intelligent man and doubtless deep in any conspiracy that was going on, might be able to decode them.

He would not wish to do so, of course; but he was in their power; and there were ways of making a prisoner talk.

BAILLIE TOLD HIMSELF that he would be brave. They had discovered the letters but they could not read them since they did not know the cipher.

They could kill him, he told himself; he would never betray his fellow Catholics.

He felt sick with apprehension when they moved him from the Marshalsea to the Tower. Could any man glide along those inky waters and pass through the traitor’s gate without terror entering his soul! However brave a man believed himself to be he must tremble.

His cell was small and cold; little light and air came through the iron bars. He told himself he did not care. One must suffer for what one believed to be the right.

When a warder entered his cell and told him to follow whither he led, Baillie knew where he was going. As he followed the warder through the dark corridors, down stone spiral staircases and his trembling fingers touched the slimy walls, he was conscious of nothing but the fear within him. It was not physical pain that he feared; the terror came from the doubts of his own bravery.

“I will never tell,” he repeated. “Never, never . . . .”

Now he was in the underground chamber. He saw the questioner; he smelled the dank odor of the river, the tang of vinegar. They used that, he thought, when the pain was too much to be borne and the victim passed into unconsciousness. They did not let him remain in that blessed state but brought him back and back again, until they had obtained what they sought.

The questions were beginning.

“Charles Baillie, you brought letters back with you from Flanders. Who gave you those letters?”

“I cannot say.”

“You are unwise, Charles Baillie; but let that be. To whom were you carrying these letters?”

“I cannot say.”

“And what do these letters contain?”

“You have seen them. You have read them.”

“You know them to be in cipher. Can you transcribe them, Charles Baillie?”

“I cannot.”

“You are secretive. We have ways of dealing with those who would keep their secrets from us.”

They were leading him now to the wooden trough; he saw the ropes, the rollers; and as they laid their rough hands on him and stripped him of his clothes, even before they laid him on the rack he could anticipate the pain in his joints.

Now he lay there, a frightened man, praying silently: “Oh Holy Mother of God, help me to be strong.”

The questions began; he shook his head.

He heard a man screaming, and with surprise realized that it was himself, for the torture had begun.

“Charles Baillie, for whom were these letters intended?”

“I do not know . . . I cannot say.”

The pain came again, more excruciating than ever, to his already tortured limbs.

“I know nothing . . . I have nothing to say . . . .”

Again and again it came . . . waves of it; he lost consciousness but the hateful vinegar brought him back and back again to pain. Not again; he could not endure it again. His whole body, his mind cried out against it.

But they had no pity. How much could a man endure?

He did not know. There was only one thing that mattered. He must stop the pain.

A man was shouting: “Norfolk . . . Lesley . . . .” And he could not believe that was his voice betraying secrets he had sworn to preserve. Water was placed at his lips. It was cool and soothing.

“There,” said a voice, “you are wiser now. It was foolish of you to suffer so much. Now . . . tell us what the letters contained . . . and there shall be no more pain.”

But there was pain. He felt he would never be free of it. Someone touched his disjointed limbs and he screamed in agony.

“We must know more, you understand.” The voice was gentle yet full of meaning. “The letters were for Norfolk and the Bishop of Ross . . . and others. You shall tell us all. But first, what were their contents?”

He did not answer.

“There’ll have to be another turn of the screw,” said a voice.

Then he was screaming: “No . . . No . . . I will tell all. It is Ridolfi. The Pope . . . the King of Spain . . . . Alva will come . . . .”

He was moaning, but they were bending over him soothingly.