anyhow. A second packet was opened. It was the one in the woman's hand,
all postmarked "Darenth Mill" and "Macquarie." Then it was that
Thothmes, with impassive shrewdness, made up for his blunder, with
interest. He saw why the ink of one word of the forged direction was
black. It was the same ink as the English directions, and, on close
examination, the same hand. This had not been clear at first, as the
word was mixed with the English postmark, "Darenth Mill"--so much so as
not to clash with the pale hand of the forgery. "That word," said
Thothmes, "was never written in Van Diemen's Land. The English stamp is
on the top of it."

Gwen took it from him, and saw that this was true. "But then the rest of
the direction was written in Australia," said she, "if this man wrote it
at all! Oh dear, I am so puzzled." And indeed she was at her wit's end.

"I won't say another word," said Mr. Hawtrey. "I have made one blunder,
and won't run any further risks. I must think about this. If you will
trust me with the letter, you shall have it back to-morrow morning. I
dare say your lordship will now excuse me. I have an appointment at the
High Court at eleven, and it's now a quarter past.... Oh no--it's not a
hanging matter.... I shall make my man drive fast.... So I will wish
your ladyship a very good morning. I wish those two old ladies could
have known this earlier. But better late than never!"

The Earl accompanied his legal adviser to the head of the stairs to give
him a civil send off, while his daughter, white with tension of
excitement and impatience, awaited his return. Coming back, he was not
the least surprised that she should fall into his arms with a tempest of
tears, crying out:--"Oh, papa dearest--fifty years!--think of it! All
their lives! Oh, my darling old Mrs. Prichard! and Granny Marrable
too--it's the same for both! Oh, think, that they were girls--yes,
nearly girls, only a few years older than me, when they parted! And the
_horrible_ wickedness of the trick--the horrible, horrible wickedness!
And then the dear old darling's own daughter, who has almost never seen
her, thinks her _mad_!... No, papa dear, don't shish me down, because
cry I _must_! Let me have a good cry over it, and I shall be better. Sit
down by me, and don't let go--there!--here on the sofa, like that.... Oh
dear, I wish I was made of wood, like some people, and could say better
late than never!" This was the wind-up of a good deal more, and s