ions amid which I was now living had their softening effect
on my heart, their elevating influence over my mind. I reproached
myself, bitterly reproached myself, for not having written more fully
and frankly to Eustace. Why had I hesitated to sacrifice to him my hopes
and my interests in the coming investigation? _He_ had not hesitated,
poor fellow--_his_ first thought was the thought of his wife!

I had passed a fortnight with my uncle and aunt before I heard
again from Mr. Playmore. When a letter from him arrived at last, it
disappointed me indescribably. A telegram from our messenger informed us
that the lodge-keeper's daughter and her husband had left New York, and
that he was still in search of a trace of them.

There was nothing to be done but to wait as patiently as we could,
on the chance of hearing better news. I remained in the North, by Mr.
Playmore's advice, so as to be within an easy journey to Edinburgh--in
case it might be necessary for me to consult him personally. Three more
weeks of weary expectation passed before a second letter reached me.
This time it was impossible to say whether the news were good or bad.
It might have been either--it was simply bewildering. Even Mr.
Playmore himself was taken by surprise. These were the last wonderful
words--limited of course by considerations of economy--which reached us
(by telegram) from our agent in America:

"Open the dust-heap at Gleninch."

CHAPTER XLIII. AT LAST!

MY letter from Mr. Playmore, inclosing the agent's extraordinary
telegram, was not inspired by the sanguine view of our prospects which
he had expressed to me when we met at Benjamin's house.

"If the telegram mean anything," he wrote, "it means that the fragments
of the torn letter have been cast into the housemaid's bucket (along
with the dust, the ashes, and the rest of the litter in the room), and
have been emptied on the dust-heap at Gleninch. Since this was done,
the accumulated refuse collected from the periodical cleansings of the
house, during a term of nearly three years--including, of course, the
ashes from the fires kept burning, for the greater part of the year, in
the library and the picture-gallery--have been poured upon the heap, and
have buried the precious morsels of paper deeper and deeper, day by day.
Even if we have a fair chance of finding these fragments, what hope can
we feel, at this distance of time, of recovering them with the writing
in a state of preservati