n view in the brief interval since you left
Edinburgh. I see in your letter (and in my discoveries) irresistible
evidence that Dexter must have been in secret communication with the
deceased lady (innocent communication, I am certain, so far as _she_
was concerned), not only at the time of her death, but perhaps for weeks
before it. I cannot disguise from myself or from you, my own strong
persuasion that if you succeed in discovering the nature of this
communication, in all human likelihood you prove your husband's
innocence by the discovery of the truth. As an honest man, I am bound
not to conceal this. And, as an honest man also, I am equally bound
to add that, not even with your reward in view, can I find it in
my conscience to advise you to risk what you must risk if you see
Miserrimus Dexter again. In this difficult and delicate matter I cannot
and will not take the responsibility: the final decision must rest with
yourself. One favor only I entreat you to grant--let me hear what you
resolve to do as soon as you know it yourself."

The difficulties which my worthy correspondent felt were no difficulties
to me. I did not possess Mr. Playmore's judicial mind. My resolution was
settled before I had read his letter through.

The mail to France crossed the frontier the next day. There was a place
for me, under the protection of the conductor, if I chose to take
it. Without consulting a living creature--rash as usual, headlong as
usual--I took it.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. ON THE JOURNEY BACK.

IF I had been traveling homeward in my own carriage, the remaining
chapters of this narrative would never have been written. Before we had
been an hour on the road I should have called to the driver, and should
have told him to turn back.

Who can be always resolute?

In asking that question, I speak of the women, not of the men. I
had been resolute in turning a deaf ear to Mr. Playmore's doubts and
cautions; resolute in holding out against my mother-in-law; resolute
in taking my place by the French mail. Until ten minutes after we had
driven away from the inn my courage held out--and then it failed me;
then I said to myself, "You wretch, you have deserted your husband!" For
hours afterward, if I could have stopped the mail, I would have done it.
I hated the conductor, the kindest of men. I hated the Spanish ponies
that drew us, the cheeriest animals that ever jingled a string of
bells. I hated the bright day that _would_ make