ening of her death?"

"Yes."

"Bagshot testifies that when she left the room, at nine, Mrs. Heathcote
was writing. Was that this letter to you?"

"I presume it was."

"When and how was it mailed? Or rather, what is the date of the
postmark?"

"The next morning."

Dexter looked at her searchingly. "This may prove to be very important,"
he said.

"I know it--now."

"Why have you not spoken before?"

"To whom could I speak? Besides, it has not seemed important to me until
now; for no one has suggested that she did not love her husband, that
she tormented him and drove him into fury, save yourself alone."

"You will see that others will suggest it also," said Dexter, unmoved by
her scorn. "Are you prepared to produce this letter?"

"I have it."

"Can I see it?"

"I would rather not show it."

"There is determined concealment here somewhere, Anne, and I am much
troubled; I fear you stand very near great danger. Remember that this is
a serious matter, and ordinary rules should be set aside, ordinary
feelings sacrificed. You will do well to show me that letter, and, in
short, to tell me the whole truth plainly. Do you think you have any
friend more steadfast than myself?"

"You are kind. But--you are prejudiced."

"Against Heathcote, do you mean?" said Dexter, a sudden flash coming for
an instant into his gray eyes. "Is it possible that _you_, you too, are
interested in that man?"

But at this touch upon her heart the girl controlled herself again. She
resumed her seat, with her face turned toward the window. "I do not
believe that he did it, and you do," she answered, quietly. "That makes
a wide separation between us."

But for the moment the man who sat opposite had forgotten the present,
to ask himself, with the same old inward wonder and anger, why it was
that this other man, who had never done anything or been anything in his
life, who had never denied himself, never worked, never accomplished
anything--why it was that such a man as this had led captive Helen,
Rachel, and now perhaps Anne. If it had been a case of great personal
beauty, he could have partially accounted for it, and--scorned it. But
it was not. Many a face was more regularly handsome than Heathcote's; he
knew that he himself would be pronounced by the majority a handsomer,
although of course older, man. But when he realized that he was going
over this same old bitter ground, by a strong effort of will he stopped
himself and return