oubled. For
this I demand nothing, but that you should collect at once the necessary
articles of clothing of this child, and put them together. If you are
ready in fifteen minutes, I will give you this gold piece."

He looked at his watch, and took from his purse a gold piece, which lent
wings to the stout feet of the nurse.

"Is all you need in here?" said he.

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he took his light and left the
chamber. Before leaving, however, he locked another door leading into
the hall, so as to prevent the possible escape of the nurse.

As he entered Camilla's boudoir his countenance became dark and stern;
every gentle and tender feeling that his child had aroused now fled
from his heart. He was now the insulted husband, the man whose honor was
wounded in its most sensitive point--who came to punish, to revenge, to
seek the proofs of the guilt he suspected. He placed the light upon
the table, and opened his wife's portfolio to seek for the key of her
drawer, which was generally kept there. It was in its usual place. Lord
Elliot shuddered as he touched it; it felt like burning fire in his
hand.

"It is the key to my grave," murmured he.

With a firm hand he put the key in the lock, opened the drawer, and drew
out the letters and papers it contained. There were his own letters, the
letters of love and tenderness he had sent her from Copenhagen; among
them he found others full of passionate proofs of the criminal and
unholy love he had come to punish. Camilla had not had the delicacy
to separate her husband's from her lover's letters; she had carelessly
thrown them in the same drawer. As Lord Elliot saw this he laughed
aloud, a feeling of inexpressible contempt overpowered his soul and
deadened his pain. He could not continue to love one who had not only
been faithless to him, but wanting in delicacy to the partner of her
sin.

Lord Elliot read but one of the beau cousin's letters, then threw it
carelessly aside. He did not care to read more of the silly speeches,
the guilty protestations of constancy of her insipid lover. He searched
but for one letter; he wished to find the original of the last one
Camilla had written to him, for he knew her too well to give her credit
for the composition of that cold, sneering, determined letter. He
wished, therefore, to find the author, whose every word had pierced his
soul like a dagger, driving him at first almost to madness.

A wild, triumphant cry