to feel that he was in ignorance. He guessed that she was storing up
the news as a sweet secret to be revealed to her husband. Well, as I
say, he put the whole case before me, and I--I advised him to keep
silent. He had wronged her in intent, but not in deed, for no man could
love more deeply, more disinterestedly than he then loved her. Every
word proved that. It was a wonderful letter, written straight from the
heart--"

I interrupted in breathless haste:--

"Have you got it? Did you keep it? Can you find it now?"

To my unspeakable relief he nodded his head.

"I can. It's not often that I keep letters, but this was an exception.
I was naturally anxious about giving the right advice. I put the letter
in my pocket-book, to read and re-read. Then, just the day before the
wedding, I caught a chill, was in bed for a month with pleurisy. The
first news I heard on getting up was--that she had gone! At once I
thought of the letter, and was thankful I had kept it; I locked it away
in my safe. I felt that some day, when she was found--Later on I wrote
to her lawyers, and tried to bully them into giving me her address. I
meant to send it to her myself, and force her to believe. But they
swore that they knew no more than I did myself. Liars!"

"No! It was true. She was ill for months; in bed! absolutely cut
off--"

"Ah, well!" He shrugged helplessly. "We were all at cross purposes, it
seems. I believed that they were lying, and would continue to lie. I
never tried them again. But the letter is there in my safe, and it is
his best witness, Miss Harding. Where is she? How do you come to know
her?"

"She's in Italy. She's coming home. To me. She's my friend. We--we
live together. Not here, but in the country. We share a house--"

He stared. I realised how incongruous the arrangement must appear. I
realised something else, too, and that was that the time had come when
to this man, at least, Miss Harding must show herself in her true
colours. Charmion must hurry home. I must wire to demand her presence.
Happiness was waiting for her, and not one day, one hour, should the
darling wait in ignorance. The dreary little flat was about to become
the scene of blissful reconciliation; of a new radiance of life and
hope. It was not conceivable that I could mar the sacredness of such a
time by masquerading in an assumed character. As Mr Thorold was bound
to know, it would simplify arrangements i