a letter has been sent to him, and
is in his hands now, whether he has read it or not as yet."

"Who sent it? Who spoke in the gallery?"

"I believe it was Robert Harding; but I cannot be sure of it.
The moment after we brought you home, I tried to find out. All
I could gather was that one of the servants struck the
speaker, whoever he was; that he returned the blow, and that a
scuffle ensued; the police interfered, and the man slipped
away. I returned to the inn; and as I was standing by the
window half an hour afterwards, I saw Harding walking down the
street; I went down-stairs and asked your servant at the door
if he knew that man, or had ever seen him before. He told me
that he had just given him a letter for Edward, which he had
requested should be delivered to him immediately. It must have
been Harding who spoke in the gallery, and whom I saw in the
street. Mrs. Tracy denied the other day all knowledge of his
being in England; but I can swear to him. I asked your servant
for the letter, which he must have thought strange enough, and
I do not know what I could have done had he produced it; but
as it was, he had given it an instant before to your maid to
take up-stairs, and I have been in cruel anxiety ever since."

"That letter is destroyed."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I snatched it out of Edward's hand and burnt it. It is almost
a relief to find from what this has saved me, for it was at a
dreadful cost, as Edward was fearfully incensed. But, for
Heaven's sake, Henry, tell me what are we to do now? Harding
will write again; there is no security, no hope. This cannot
last."

"Something must certainly be done, and I must find out this
Harding. I am enraged with old Tracy, for having betrayed it
all to him; but money, perhaps... Have you much at your
disposal, Ellen?"

"Some, not a great deal; but I can get more, perhaps. Oh,
Heavens! is it come to this: must I buy the silence of a set
of wretches, as if I had indeed been a vile criminal? And what
have I done after all? Good God! what have I done? Nothing
that I might not proclaim to the world, with regret and sorrow
indeed, but without shame or remorse."

"You should in that case have proclaimed it sooner. It is too
late now."

"So you say, and so you have made me act. If it had not been
for you, if I had never known you, if you had never crossed my
path, I should not be the miserable creature I am now. But I
am driven to extremities; sorrow and sh