“You had a letter from her after the Baron came and took her away?”

“Yes, from London.  She said that she had been to several plays and concerts, but did not care for life in town.  There was too much bustle and noise and study of clothes.”

“And what other letters did you receive from her?”

“Three or four, I think.  They were all from places abroad.  One was from Vienna, one was from Milan, and one from some place with an unpronounceable name in Hungary.  The last——­”

“Yes, the last?” I gasped eagerly, interrupting her.

“Well, the last I received only a fortnight ago.  If you will wait a moment I will go and get it.  It was so strange that I haven’t destroyed it.”  And she went out, and I heard by the frou-frou of her skirts that she was ascending the stairs.

After five minutes of breathless anxiety she rejoined me, and handing me the letter to read, said: 

“It is not in her handwriting—­I wonder why?”

The paper was of foreign make, with blue lines ruled in squares.  Written in a hand that was evidently foreign, for the mistakes in the orthography were many, was the following curious communication: 

“My Dear Lydia: 

“Perhaps you may never get this letter—­the last I shall ever be able to send you.  Indeed, I run great risks in sending it.  Ah! you do not know the awful disaster that has happened to me, all the terrors and the tortures I endure.  But no one can assist me, and I am now looking forward to the time when it will all be over.  Do you recollect our old peaceful days in the garden at Chichester?  I think of them always, always, and compare that sweet peace of the past with my own terrible sufferings of to-day.  Ah, how I wish I might see you once again; how that I might feel your hand upon my brow, and hear your words of hope and encouragement!  But happiness is now debarred from me, and I am only sinking to the grave under this slow torture of body and of soul.

“This will pass through many hands before it reaches the post.  If, however, it ever does get despatched and you receive it, will you do me one last favor—­a favor to an unfortunate girl who is friendless and helpless, and who will no longer trouble the world?  It is this:  Take this letter to London, and call upon Mr. Martin Woodroffe at 98 Cork Street, Piccadilly.  Show him my letter, and tell him from me that through it all I have kept my promise, and that the secret is still safe.  He will understand—­and also know why I cannot write this with my own hand.  If he is abroad, keep it until he returns.

“It is all I ask of you, Lydia, and I know that if this reaches you, you will not refuse me.  You have been my only friend and confidante, but I now bid you farewell, for the unknown beckons me, and from the grave I cannot write.  Again farewell, and for ever.

“Your loving and affectionate friend,

“Elma.”