tter had been in its place, I believe I should have burned
the original at that moment.

The last morsel of paper had been barely consumed by the flames when the
door opened, and Eustace came in.

He glanced at the fire. The black cinders of the burned paper were still
floating at the back of the grate. He had seen the letter brought to
me at the breakfast-table. Did he suspect what I had done? He said
nothing--he stood gravely looking into the fire. Then he advanced and
fixed his eyes on me. I suppose I was very pale. The first words he
spoke were words which asked me if I felt ill.

I was determined not to deceive him, even in the merest trifle.

"I am feeling a little nervous, Eustace," I answered; "that is all."

He looked at me again, as if he expected me to say something more. I
remained silent. He took a letter out of the breast-pocket of his coat
and laid it on the table before me--just where the Confession had lain
before I destroyed it!

"I have had a letter too this morning," he said. "And _I,_ Valeria, have
no secrets from _you._"

I understood the reproach which my husband's last words conveyed; but I
made no attempt to answer him.

"Do you wish me to read it?" was all I said pointing to the envelope
which he had laid on the table.

"I have already said that I have no secrets from you," he repeated. "The
envelope is open. See for yourself what is inclosed in it."

I took out--not a letter, but a printed paragraph, cut from a Scotch
newspaper.

"Read it," said Eustace.

I read as follows:

"STRANGE DOINGS AT GLENINCH--A romance in real life seems to be in
course of progress at Mr. Macallan's country-house. Private excavations
are taking place--if our readers will pardon us the unsavory
allusion--at the dust-heap, of all places in the world! Something has
assuredly been discovered; but nobody knows what. This alone is certain:
For weeks past two strangers from London (superintended by our respected
fellow-citizen, Mr. Playmore) have been at work night and day in the
library at Gleninch, with the door locked. Will the secret ever be
revealed? And will it throw any light on a mysterious and shocking event
which our readers have learned to associate with the past history of
Gleninch? Perhaps when Mr. Macallan returns, he may be able to answer
these questions. In the meantime we can only await events."

I laid the newspaper slip on the table, in no very Christian frame of
mind toward the persons