I am ready to do, to bear, to suffer anything--to forgive anything.
Let me see you: I can then speak more freely. If you should be set at
liberty in a day or two, I shall hear. You can then come to me: if not,
I will come to you. But you need have no fear for me: I shall take means
to prevent recognition."

The envelope was plain and of common texture; but the note-paper was
hand-made; with a faint, fine odor as of some sweet-smelling Eastern
wood, and bore in one corner the letters "R. R.," intertwined in deep
blue tints. There was no doubt in Caspar's mind as to the person from
whom it came.

He received it about three o'clock in the afternoon. If he wished to
decline the proposed interview, he knew that he must write at once. In
his heart he knew also that it would be better for him and better for
her that the interview should be declined. What had he to do with
Rosalind Romaine? He was accused of murdering her brother: it was not
seemly that she should see him--even although the world were not to know
of the visit. The world would know sooner or later--that was the worst
of it: ultimately, the world knows everything. But why should she wish
to see him? Had she information to impart? If she had, it would be
foolish, from merely conventional reasons, to refuse her admittance,
supposing that she really wished to come. And in a day or two at most he
would certainly be able to go, if necessary, to her.

But the fact was, he did not believe that she had any information to
impart. She did not say so. Probably she only wished to express her
faith in him, and to assure him of her friendship. Rosalind had been his
friend through many a long year. She had always shown herself kind and
sympathetic--in spite of one or two interludes of coldness and general
oddity which Caspar had never felt able to understand. It would be
pleasant enough to hear her say that she trusted him--he could not help
feeling that. For, although he had passed the matter off very lightly
when talking to Lesley, he was secretly hurt at the absence of any
message from his wife. He could almost have worked himself into a rage
at the thought of it. "Does she, too, think me guilty?" he asked
himself. "She ought to know me better, although she does not love me!
She ought to know. And she does know, but she is too cold and too proud
to say so. Poor, warm-hearted Lesley has tried to win her sympathy for
me and failed. Well, I never expected otherwise: she never