"Sir; tell Her Majesty it is a debt of honour."

He wheeled back to his table, took up a sheet and began to write. When
he had done he scattered the sand on it, and held it out to me, his
mouth twitching a little.

"Will that serve?" he said.

I have that paper still. It is written with five lines only, and a
signature. It runs as follows:

"This is to command Mistress Dorothy Jermyn, late Maid
of Honour to Her Majesty, now dismissed by the King,
though through no fault of her own, to leave the Court at
Whitehall at noon to-day, in company with her cousin Mr.
Roger Mallock, and never to return thither without his consent.

"CHARLES R."

Then followed the date.

I had a criticism or two; but I dared not make them.

"That is more than I could have asked, Sir. I am under an eternal
obligation to Your Majesty."

"I daresay: but all mine are discharged to you, until you earn some
more. It might have meant a peerage, Mr. Mallock."