As soon as he was able to be dressed and sit up he began to talk of going again to America.

Of course Sir Herbert Randal vetoed such a proposition at once.

“You are not to stir outside the grounds of Heathdale for three months at least,” he said, decidedly.

“But I must, Sir Herbert.  You have no idea how much is at stake,” the sick man pleaded.

“You must not.  I cannot help how much there is at stake,” returned the physician, firmly.  “I have had hard work to get you up, even so far, from this nervous prostration and the least excitement or imprudence will cause a dangerous relapse.”

And so, with despair at his heart, Sir William was obliged to submit.

He tried to write to Virgie, intending to send the letter to her through the lawyer whom she had employed and whose name had appeared in connection with the papers he had received, but he could not; he found that his brain was too weak to permit of the framing of even a sentence, and he knew that he could never plead his cause successfully in such a state.

He shrank from asking any one else to write for him; his sister he knew was not in sympathy with him, and he would not confide in her.

When his mind had become strong enough to realize what was going on about him, he had one day asked Lady Linton to bring him both documents that had come to him from America.

She obeyed him, making no comment, though her manner betrayed that she knew well enough their character.

He told her to lock them in a certain drawer which no one was ever allowed to open save himself.

She did so in his presence, and earnestly hoped, as the key clicked upon them, that that episode in her brother’s life was buried for all time.

But she was not long in finding that she was to be disappointed

As summer advanced Sir William gained more rapidly and by August he was pronounced comparatively well, although he was still but the ghost of his former self.

Then he announced his determination of again crossing the Atlantic, and Lady Linton’s heart failed her.  Would he never relinquish his chase after that miserable girl?

She earnestly pleaded that he would not leave home again.

“I must,” he replied, sternly.  “I must find my wife.”

“Your wife!” she retorted, losing all patience; “you have no wife.”

“Be still, Miriam,” he commanded, growing frightfully pale.  “I see that you know what has occurred, and though the law may have succeeded in breaking the tie between us, yet in my heart I claim Virgie as my wife just as truly to-day as she ever was.  I will search the world over for her; if I find her the law will give her to me again, for I believe that she is still true to me, whatever she may think of me; if I do not find her, I shall live and die cherishing her image alone.”

Lady Linton knew that he meant what he said.