written to the French vicomte; the letters that would blast her for ever
in her husband's estimation, and turn his luke-warmness and his coldness
into actual hatred and repulsion.

And was it likely that Vera, with such a weapon in her hands, would spare
her? What woman, with so signal a revenge in her power, would forego the
delight of wreaking it upon the woman who had taken from her the man she
loved? Helen knew that in Vera's place she would show no mercy to her
rival.

It was all clear as daylight to her now; the appointment at the vicarage
gate, the something which she had said in her note she had for him; the
whole mystery of the secret meeting between them--it was Vera's revenge.
Vera, whom Maurice loved, and whom she, Helen, hated with such a deadly
hatred!

And then, in the silence of the night, whilst her husband slept, and
whilst the thunder and the wind howled about her home, Helen crept forth
from her room, and sought for that fatal packet of letters which her
husband had told her he had "not yet" opened.

Oh, if she could only find them and destroy them before he ever saw them
again! Long and patiently she looked for them, but her search was in
vain. She ransacked his study and his dressing-room; she opened every
drawer, and fumbled in every pocket, but she found nothing.

She was frightened, too, to be about the house like a thief in the night.
Every gust of wind that creaked among the open doors made her start,
every flash of lightning that lighted up the faces of the old family
portraits, looking down upon her with their fixed eyes, made her turn
pale and shiver, lest she should see them move, or hear them speak.

Only her jealousy and her hatred burnt fiercely above her terror; she
would not give in, she told herself, until she found it.

Denis Wilde, who was restless too, had heard her soft footsteps along the
passage outside his door; and, with a vague uneasiness as to who could be
about at such an hour, he came creeping out of his room, and peeped in at
the library door.

He saw her sitting upon the floor, a lighted candle by her side, an open
drawer, out of her husband's writing-table, upon her lap, turning over
papers, and bills, and note-books with eager, trembling hands. And he saw
in her white, set face, and wild, scared eyes, that which made him draw
back swiftly and shudderingly from the sight of her.

"Good God!" he murmured to himself, as he sought his room again, "the
woman has